


Whole

by VaguelyMissingLink



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest, a cup of fluff, a dash of sadness to taste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyMissingLink/pseuds/VaguelyMissingLink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stans finally get to take their boat trip around the world. </p><p>Stan has memory erasing gun-induced senior moments. Ford has feelings. They both have the Stan O' War II and a big ol' world to explore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Postcards.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is tagged as explicit, but it only applies to the last chapter. The rest of the work is mature.
> 
> Please mind the tags, and thank you for reading!

Stan runs his fingers over the life vest that he’d painstakingly strapped himself into. It was brand new, it still had the stale smell of the outdoorsy supply store they bought it in and all. He tightens the straps and a lopsided grin slowly spreads across his face -- fits like a glove. It was like one of those - what were they called - man girdles? Yeah. Man girdles. He stares at his reflection in the window, indulging himself in a manly man pose like one of those professional bodybuilders before the door to the room flies open without so much as a courtesy knock. 

He knows he’s caught, but for a long, long second nothing is said. Maybe it was a draft? A really strong draft. A _really_ strong draft that could turn a doorknob.

But no, there’s that ‘hey, I caught you doing something embarrassing’ throat noise just a moment later. “You know we’re on dry land still, right?”

Stan turns around with a laugh. “Yeah, well. I was just...ya know. Trying it on. Have to make sure it fits.”

“And the flexing?”

“Stress test. Don’t worry about it.” He grins and starts popping off the clasps. His twin shakes his head and drops a stack of papers on the warped motel desk, gaze turning to the window. It was slightly ajar, and he stares past the space that once held Stanley's reflection to look towards the horizon.

Stan doesn't know what his brother is staring at. He guesses the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, but he knows stuff like that probably doesn't dazzle his twin brother like it does someone who hasn't traveled across multiple planes of existence. He clears his throat after a long minute of staring at the uncharacteristic stubble on his twin’s broad chin. “Found us a boat, Sixer?”

“Almost.”

Stanley cocks an eyebrow but Ford doesn’t elaborate. Sighing, he tosses the vest to one side and lowers himself onto the small bed that was nearest to the door, pulling two postcards and a pen from an inside pocket in his jacket. He sets one down on the floral bedspread and turns the other over in his fingers, chuckling quietly at the image of a frowning crab.

Don’t be _crabby_ , you’re in Maryland! 

Dipper would roll his eyes, but Mabel would appreciate the joke. He squints as he begins to scrawl them a note, singing a little ‘writing a postcard to my family’ song. If Ford’s annoyed he doesn’t say anything, but he does eventually shuffle along to join him on the bed. 

He picks up the first postcard. “Maryland: we’ve got the good kind of crabs. Stanley!” He sighs in disgust and Stan just laughs. He knew it’d ruffle his feathers. 

“Don’t worry, this one’s for Dipper and Mabel.” He waves the postcard currently in his hand. “That’s yours, Sixer. Two-for-one down at that tacky tourist shop across the street.” Of course he didn’t pay for them, but Ford doesn’t need to know that. 

And ah god, the visit to the shop made him ache for the Mystery Shack. Being surrounded by kitsch of his own design, making up all those lies, taking money from dupes, but his life is so much grander than that now.

He watches as Ford’s face softens. “Mine?” His twin raises the postcard back up for another close inspection, as though the realization that his brother had thought enough to get him something had changed his mind about the dirty joke. And then he smiles. “Thanks,” he says. 

He’s been saying it a lot, that word. Stanley’s been counting. There’s a little mental tally sheet inside his brain of every gracious word said by his brother since they patched things up. Even things as insignificant as thanking him for passing the salt don’t go unnoticed now. He revels in the word the way a person who was wronged might, as a sort of vindication for a lifetime of hurt, but Stanley doesn’t collect the thank-yous for any reason but proof that Ford cares. He doesn't know how to put the feeling into words, except that he feels more...whole. More complete. 

And he knows it’s all weird, and not the kind of weird that fascinates his brother, so he keeps it to himself.

“You’re welcome,” he eventually replies. His attention is then quickly back on the postcard to the younger twins. “Dear Mabel and Dippy,” he begins to read aloud, laughing because he can already picture the stinkface that Dipper will make, “Ford and I finally made it to the East Coast. We sold the camper and yesterday we bought our supplies -- all we need now is a boat. I was thinking either an olde-timey pirate ship or a giant yacht.” 

He glances up at his brother. “Anything to add?” 

Ford shrugs. “Anything I’d want to add would be better suited to a letter.” 

Stanley grabs his pen again and scribbles on the postcard. “Ford says hi.” He adds a line in there about keeping themselves out of trouble, then signs his and Ford’s names. He pauses, then doodles a little heart. For Mabel’s sake. The postcard and pen then go back into his jacket, and he lays back on the sinking mattress with his hands behind his head. 

“Do you want to see the boat I have in mind?” Ford asks quietly. 

“Does it look like the one we went to see yesterday?” Stan questions. Ford opens his mouth to answer and Stanley cuts him off. “Because you’re starting to get too picky, Sixer. Does it float? Will it be big enough for the both of us and all of your equipment? If yes, then we buy.” 

Well, haggle until the price is reasonable, but that’s implied.

“It has to be perfect,” Ford objects. His voice is firm, but he says it in such a way that Stan has to strain to hear him. 

_Perfect_. As though Stan might laugh at him for thinking so. As if he isn’t thinking the same thing, needing this boat to be as glorious as he’s always imagined it to be. Occasionally flashes of those moments in his past will surface, the ones spent staring at the wheel of his car when he felt cold and lonely and lost, still trying to hold desperately on to the Stan O’ War and how things should have been. This trip meant the world to him, though what surprises him now is what it apparently means to his brother too. 

He wonders briefly if it’s always been the case, if Ford had always been so passionate about sailing around the world. His gut tells him that it can’t be possible; he’s having one of those Senior Moments he’s been experiencing lately. Stan’s brow furrows and he tries and tries to recall why he’d clung to the dream of the Stan O’ War and Ford hadn’t. Ford had been angry, that much he recalls, but why? Something about a machine…and football? A football machine?

No, that’s stupid, that can’t be it. 

Eventually it comes back to him in pieces. Ford couldn’t have been dreaming of sailing away with him; he was too busy building himself a life without his twin. It’s only now that everything has to be perfect, but the reason is probably less sentimental and more because Ford is just exact and demanding. 

It’s okay though. His brother may not be sentimental, but he still cares. He has forty nine ‘thank yous’ to prove it. 

He snorts and very carefully, very slowly, raises himself back up. 

“Let’s go see this boat.” 

_________________________

Despite all the healing done in the weeks prior to the cross-country trip, information still occasionally blurs about the edges of Stanley Pines’ mind. Ford knows this, even if Stanley won’t admit it. His brother is so prideful, so quick to cover up a falter, but he sees when the gears just won’t turn. He knows when he’s having trouble remembering. And for his part Ford is protective, though it seems odd now to be so delicate with his brother. Stanley, after all, has always been the powerhouse of the duo. 

He finds himself watching him, studying him, charting his responses out of concern. It worries him when he doesn’t respond immediately to things, especially when he’s expecting some kind of smartass retort, but now he knows Stanley’s memories can be coaxed back if necessary. He just wonders if Stan will remember everything on his own. 

Rather, he hopes he does, desperately so. 

When Stanley acquiesces to his suggestion of having a look at a boat, Ford smiles gently and nods. He doesn’t know what his brother had forgotten this time, but it all seems to be okay. “It’s on the smaller side, but I think you’ll like it,” he explains. 

Out of all the places he’s traveled to and all the ones he’s dreamed of since, none occupied so little space in Stanford’s mind than Maryland. But Stanley’s less-than-savory past makes it difficult for his twin to travel, so there they are, staying in a run-down motel in a quiet, little beach town that could have been a stand-in for Glass Shard Beach. So much of this reminds him of childhood, which is equal parts appropriate and heartbreaking. He can’t help but think of how tremendously happy and then how horrifically sad he’d been in that place, or how inadvertently cruel he’d been to his brother. 

Ford inhales the salty air and exhales, and moments later Stanley does the same to tease him. They laugh together, Ford’s heavy heart temporarily soothed. Did Stan know that the guilt was eating him up inside? 

He glances at his brother, who’s trying to point out potential rubes he’s spotted heading into the hokey tourist shops. No, he thinks. He probably didn’t know. 

When Ford presents the old fishing boat to Stanley he immediately begins to rattle off the dimensions. He wants Stanley to know everything, to like the boat as much as he does, and so he tells him the capacity for speed and storage, the potential for sailing if they learned how to rig it properly, the power generator they wouldn’t even need to purchase, where he’d place the antennas and his telescope. He talks and talks until he’s sure he’s made his case, and then inhales and he turns around from his position on top of the cabin to get his brother’s opinion. 

Instead he finds himself looking his twin squarely in the ass. 

“Uh, Stanley?”

Stan’s practically slung over the railing, peering down at the side of the boat intently. As intently as Ford’s ever seen his brother observe something for that matter, besides maybe a potential mark. He creeps up beside him and leans over as well, his hands clasped behind his back. “Everything alright, Stan?” To his very well-read eyes it looks as though nothing was wrong with that particular area of the boat. 

Eventually Stan points to a slat in the boat’s side, head turning to look up at his brother with a wide grin plastered to his face. “That’s where Stan O’ War’s going to go. Right there.” 

Ford nearly decks him, he’s so pleased (and more than a little relieved). “You like it?” he asks, just to be sure, and in response Stan gives him a withering look. 

“Are you kidding me? I love it!” Stan declares, standing tall once again and reaching out to embrace his brother. “She’s floating and isn't falling apart! You did great!”

“Thank you,” Ford replies, the laugh that then rumbles out of his brother surprising him.

Later, when they’re lying in the two tiny beds provided by the motel, Stan still mourning the loss of all that money they were about to just give away and Ford responding with a not-so-quick lesson in how commerce works, they decide that the boat can’t be the Stan O’ War. Though the first Stan O’ War never got to sail with the two of them on it, out of respect for the old boat’s memory it was best to retire the name. 

The Stan O’ War II, however, will do perfectly.


	2. Ma.

The sea is so perfectly still, the moon so full and bright that Stanley can see a vast blanket of stars reflected beneath the Stan O’ War II’s hull. He looks out at the boundless expanse in front of him and sighs; a smart person would have beautiful thoughts running through their mind at the sight, all poetic and majestic like a Bon Jovi song. A clever person, like Ford maybe, would be inspired by the second sky below their feet, but instead he’s got a sitcom theme song running through his head. 

He gives up and just sort of leans into it, belting the song as he gathers up the rope along the deck. There’s not a hell of a lot to do -- the boat’s been anchored in a small cove for a couple hours now, but Stanley actually finds himself enjoying this kind of ‘honest’ work for once. Ford is stood at his perch on top of the cabin roof, and he grumbles something about Stanley breaking the calm. 

“Hey, Poindexter, I’m heading inside. Don’t stay out too long,” he tells him. He can see his brother already starting to shiver in the cold, the dope.

Ford responds with a grunt and Stan rolls his eyes and heads into the warmth calling to him from below deck. After stripping off his coat, hat, and vest, he turns on the hotplate to heat some tea for a hot toddy, just like Ma Pines used to make when they were sick. He’s mostly just in it for the whiskey, but he figures the lemon and the honey gives the illusion of health. He mixes it and settled into the cushions of the small dining nook with a loud groan. 

His body aches aren’t so bad lately. In fact, he feels more alive than he ever had, despite being in his golden years. 

Eventually his brother drifts into the cabin, and of course his shivers are obnoxious now. “Shoulda come in early,” Stan says, sipping his cocktail and looking absolutely smug. Ford tries to make some kind of retort but his teeth chatter loudly instead. 

“Sixer, Sixer,” Stan sings gruffly, tsking as he gets up and grabs a blanket from off the back of the seat. He throws it over Stanford’s shoulders and bundles him up good and tight, rubbing his shoulders for a moment to make sure the shivers leave him. 

“Stanley Pines taking care of his older brother. I can hardly believe it,” Ford teases. “Thanks.” 

That’s sixty six. 

Stan gives the blanket a little tug and then lets him go. 

“What’re you drinking? Is that…”

“Ma’s favorite morning drink? You know it.” 

“Rest her soul,” Ford sighs, sitting down at the table. “I wouldn’t mind one of those, if you’re planning on making another.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan’s already putting the kettle back on the hotplate. “Spot any aliens out there?”

“With my telescope? Hardly.” He knows Stanley is joking, and so when his brother turns around to call him a nerd he shoots him a smirk. Stanley shuts up and grabs the jar of honey. “At sea the stars are so bright it’s almost as though you can observe the entire galaxy.”

It’s exactly the kind of thing Stan wishes he could say, and it makes his mind wander a bit. Lately he’s found himself thinking about all the amazing things his brother saw while traveling from dimension to dimension, especially now that he’s sailing on an old fishing vessel with his old, out-of-shape twin. 

“Yeah, well, I saw a seagull fly out to sea and croak, so I think we’re pretty even on the whole observing-the-wondrous-sights-of-the-universe front.” He sets the drink in front of his brother, who snorts and pokes a six-fingered hand out from the blanket to draw the hot mug in close. 

“Lucky you.” 

“I know.” Stanley moves in beside him with a smirk, tugging the blanket so he could share in it. Ford wraps it about the both of them without a word, eyes forward as he sips the drink. He whistles -- Stan’s sure because the booze in that first sip went right to his head.

“Strong pour still!” his brother coughs, proving Stanley correct. 

“Strong pour always,” he replies, almost sounding offended, “if you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”

“No, no,” Ford objects, having yet another sip. He doesn’t cringe again. “Just like Ma used to make.”

Stan laughs deeply. He sits back and enjoys the rocking of the waves against the boat, then reaches for one of the many charts that Ford has splayed out on the table. “How long until we catch up to this ghost ship of yours, Sixer?” 

Because that’s what Ford had dragged them both onto a still-fishy boat for, a damn ghost ship. Not that Ford’s really at fault, but Stan is starting to doubt the adventure aspect of this day cruise gone awry.

“Mn. Two days tops,” Ford replies, smiling one of those smug smiles of his as he reaches for a massive book that’s been hidden underneath a pile of yellowed parchment. “Assuming she’s still sailing.”

He drags the book close and opens it, positioning himself to settle in with some research. Stan debates whether he should just crawl into bed for the night when to his surprise Ford begins to read out loud from the book to him, his head moving to rest on his shoulder. “The legend of the Mary Celeste, or the Marie Celeste, is regarded as one of the more puzzling maritime mysteries to happen to a ship. Born in fact and not fiction, the Mary Celeste departed New York Harbor…”

Stan’s trying to listen, but this kind of affection is new. They were close like this when they were kids, but theirs is a relationship still trying to overcome the awkwardness of simple hugs. Stan looks down at Ford, his head still heavy on his shoulder, and accepts it. He sips his drink and decides that this is good. Warmth and someone's undivided attention; what more could a guy ask for?

His mug is empty by the time Ford lifts his head and closes the book. He yawns, and then two seconds later Stan does the same. 

“Time to hit the hay,” Stan grunts, and Ford agrees with a silent nod. They both rise from the bench and table and walk across to the little alcove that serves as their bedroom. 

There isn’t even the hint of privacy in the Stan O’ War II. At times it feels like they’re practically breathing the same air, and Stan wonders if the peace between them is going to just suddenly snap like a twig underfoot. He doesn’t like thinking that way; he wants to be optimistic, but he gets the feeling that it’s all too good to be true, especially as he crawls into the single bed with his brother. 

This should be weird, two grown men sharing a bed, but that first night out to sea Stan and Ford stayed up late telling stories and laughing so hard their sides ached in the morning. The second night they did the same, and then the third night they practically passed out they were so damn tired from fighting a small gale that had blown through. It’s their fourth night tonight, and as Stan curls up on his side he thinks about the bunk in the room they used to share as kids.

That rabbit hole in particular is deep. His mind wanders and wanders until he begins to chuckle, and Ford, tired as he is, grunts to signal his interest. 

“Remember making hand shadows? Ma would always catch us up past bedtime making them, but we’d argue that we weren’t technically out of bed so the usual punishment didn’t apply.” Ford groans and Stan just grins wider. “Never worked though. You...you were great at ‘em though.” 

“Trust you to remember something like that,” his brother replies, turning onto his back. His hands are folded on his stomach. Stan thinks he hears something sad in his voice, but he’s determined not to allow them to drift down melancholy lane. 

“I don’t forget talent,” Stan argues with a smirk, rolling over so he’s facing his twin. Ford snorts, but he sees the smile on his face through the dark. 

They both fall silent, Stan still looking at his brother and his brother still looking firmly at the ceiling. He wonders silently what’s going on in that gigantic brain of his -- what he’s thinking about, if it’s the ghost ship they’re trying to track down or maybe something else. Maybe it’s Ma. After all, that’s twice in one day that he’s mentioned her. 

He doesn’t know why either. He hasn’t thought about his mother in years, but suddenly all he can think about are her long nails and big hair, and that nasally laugh of hers. He tries to think about the last time he spoke to her but nothing comes up. It’s just...blank. 

“Ford?” he asks after a while. He wants to ask about Ma, but he clams up before he even gives his brother the chance to acknowledge him. “Nevermind.” 

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Stanford’s heart aches each time Stanley remembers something small. Even a small memory is good. He reminds himself of this often, but there isn’t a discernible pattern to the lapses or the recollections and it’s beginning to drive him insane. He wants Stanley to be whole, but there’s a nagging thought in the back of his head that maybe he never will be. And maybe Stanley will never get that one memory back. 

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear Stanley call for him, but he does catch the dismissal. He turns his head ever-so-slightly, then pushes his hand across the bed to press his palm firmly against Stanley’s lips.

“Go to sleep, Stanley,” he grunts. 

His brother grumbles something against his hand, but he closes his eyes. Ford lingers like that for as long as he dares, then pulls his hand back and shuts his eyes to feign sleep. It finally comes to him late that night.


	3. One Hundred.

Stanley’s seen a lot of shit in his time. Crazy shit, like the undead clawing at the door of his house or an anthropomorphic, evil triangle from the back of the dollar bill trying to take over the universe -- but this? This takes the cake. Under the thick layers of frost and ice that they’ve spent the better part of a morning scaling there’s a forest of bodies, frozen in what appears to have been their very last moments. Stan feels the urge to make a joke, just to break the tension that’s appeared at the discovery, but he meets Ford’s eyes and they both just frown. 

It’s one of the most horrifying things he’s seen in his life, and honest-to-god, it’s rendered him speechless. Him! The former Mr. Mystery left without a thing to say! 

Up to this moment Stanley’s had a great day. He and Ford had breakfast together and shared ghost stories, and the subject of whether or not their old house in New Jersey had been haunted came up. Ford had said yes, because there were always noises in the attic and the house was riddled with cold spots, tell tale signs of a haunting. Stanley had argued no, because the old man never fixed the holes in the roof and the outside slats, tell tale signs of a lazy father and a house that was falling apart. It was...good. Really good for his memory too.

Ford finally speaks up to address the horror show, breaking the trance Stanley had purposefully put himself in to avoid processing what’s in front of them. His twin has crept carefully over the thick layer of ice on the deck to inspect one of the bodies, face pressing so close to the frozen sailor’s outstretched hand that Stan wonders if he’s trying to see through it. “I didn't expect this.”

“What's throwing you,” Stan grunts, “the ice or the corpses?”

“Both.” Ford stands straight and adjusts his glasses. “I was expecting something more supernatural when we finally caught up with the ship.”

Stan accidentally makes eye contact with one of the bodies - oh god, _they still have eyes_ \- and he quickly grimaces and turns around. “You and me both.” It’s supposed to be a ghost ship, not an icy mausoleum. He feels like he’s being stared at and it creeps him right out. 

With Ford doing whatever it was that he does, Stanley steps over a coil of rope, and noticing it’s unfurled at the end he follows the winding trail it’s left behind. It circles about the top deck and weaves around a trio of frozen bodies, still huddled together for what he imagines was some semblance of warmth. Stanley continues to follow the rope, stepping over tools and what looks like crumpled bits of leather, until the trail suddenly ends at a darkened space in between two large stacks of cargo boxes and barrels. 

The rope rises from the deck like it’s still being held, and for whatever reason Stanley decides that now he needs to know what’s holding it. He shines his flashlight in the makeshift alcove and shudders violently. It’s a sailor - a young kid really, no older than the twins, and he’s crouched over with what looks like a chunk of the sail wrapped around him. When Stanley kneels down for a better look a face frozen in an eternal grimace stares right back at him. 

He can’t imagine what it must have been like to die like this, and that young too. “Are we done here, Ford?” he calls loudly over his shoulder. Because he would really like to be done right about now. 

The reply that never comes concerns him, and grumbling and occasionally swearing he moves back across slippery deck to find his brother. “Hey? Hey! Sixer, answer me!” 

“Stanley, stop shouting!” finally comes the reply, and it’s from below his feet. A sudden dawning realization that his brother has now gone into the creepy corpse ship makes Stanley groan and stomp a little louder. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Ford admits to himself that the frozen corpse scenario isn’t outside the realm of possibility, but it’s a grim ending to something he’d thought would be more fantastical in nature. Stories of a ghost ship eerily coasting around this part of the Arctic had been common since the 19th century, and all of his devices had detected some sort of anomaly as they entered this part of the sea. Anomaly, numerous stories of a ghost ship - considering what exists out there in the universe, Ford knows that the idea of ship crewed by the dead isn’t so far-fetched. 

But no, the ship’s surrounded by thick sheets of ice, so it clearly hasn't been going anywhere for a long while, and it’s populated entirely by corpses that haven’t been doing much sailing lately. Still, judging by the make of the ship itself and what tattered clothes remain on the body of the crew, the ship’s been afloat for nearly two hundred years, so there’s still something to investigate here after all. And Ford needs to investigate something; he’s been jonesing for a mystery to take his own mind off of Stanley’s. He decides to try and locate the ship’s log. 

After slipping down the stairs, Ford easily locates the captain’s quarters. The ice is less thick down here, but it feels so much colder, so much damper. His breath comes out in smoky white puffs in front of him, leaving a trail of steam as he walks across the decorated and almost homey-feeling room. At the very back by an ice-covered window is a single desk with an open book, and sitting at it is a corpse with a pen still in its withered hand.

As Ford leans over the body of the captain with the intention of reading his last entry, he begins to hear his brother shouting. He rolls his eyes. God, Stanley, not now. He ignores it for as long as he can, then snaps back at him. Moments later, his brother is huffing and puffing down the frozen stairwell. 

“Hey, Ford, find treasure or w….” 

The words apparently die on his lips when he sees the body of the captain. 

“Sixer. He’s got mold on his face.”

He turns his head and -- yes, okay, the dead man has green mold over the space where his eyes used to be. “So he does,” he says dryly. “Stanley, I found the Captain’s diary. Come look at this.”

“And stand next to cheese-face? I don’t think so.”

“Stanley…”

“Doesn’t this creep you out? Ford, I saw _a kid_ up there.” 

Ford continues to ignore his brother; he’s gotten very good at it. Stanley doesn’t seem to mind though; he’s stopped talking and started poking around the room, searching for treasure probably. Ford carefully leans over the desk to look at the writing, and is happy to find that it’s still legible. He begins to read the last entry a loud. “ _1th Nov. 1862; We have been enclosed in the ice seventy days. Without food we have resorted to eating our shoes. The fire went out yesterday, and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again but without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief_ -” He stands up and rubs his chin. “It just ends there.”

“Cheery,” Stan says. He’s stopped trying to pull at a frozen painting off the wall. “As if the looks of mortal terror on their faces weren’t horrifying enough.” 

“I know,” Ford replies, frowning. “If we could somehow save the journal, I think we could--” 

Suddenly there’s a dull thud on the deck above them, and they both pause. 

“Did you hear that?” Stan practically yells. Ford shushes him harshly and runs to stand underneath the spot on the deck that had been struck. He waits a couple seconds to see if it will repeat, and he's rewarded with another thud, and another, and another. It sounds like…

“Maybe something’s gotten loose, like a cannon ball,” Stan guesses, rather optimistically so. 

They both listen for the sound again. The noises continue, but they’re no longer above Ford’s head. But there’s something else that’s bothering Ford too -- if they can hear the impact on the wood, that means that the noise is happening underneath the layers of ice. “It sounds like…”

“Someone’s walking around,” Stan finishes for him. Less optimistic this time around, but probably more accurate.

Ford shares a look with his brother. There’s definitely someone or something walking around on the top deck. Ford’s confident they can handle the situation though, whatever it may be. After all, they weren’t idiotic enough to leave their weapons back at the ship, and Ford’s dealt with enough exorcisms that an army of ghosts didn’t frighten him. 

Stanley gives him a solid nod and begins to move back up the stairs to investigate, and Ford follows without thinking. Without looking behind him either, which is his first mistake. 

Halfway up the stairs Ford feels a strong tug on his leg.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Stan hears his brother cry out for him, but he’s already at the landing when he sees Ford fall forward on to the stairs and get dragged back into the hold. He yells -- this isn’t the first time this has happened, Ford being pulled away from him and crying out for help, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t save him this time. Stan tries to rush down there, but he feels something take firm hold of his shoulder. A hand, almost. 

He turns, and he’s met with the sight of six reanimated corpses standing in a semicircle around him. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he snorts, “and then this happens. Why not?” 

The young sailor Stan found in the alcove is the one who’s got his shoulder, his mouth still open in a silent scream, his fingers with long, sharp icicles at the tips digging into his coat. The rope is also still in his other hand, but he’s somehow managed to drag the entire length across the deck of the ship without disrupting the coat of ice on it. The part of Stan’s brain that would normally pause to ask questions and consider consequences is gone, and almost immediately he reels back and throws a fist into the sailor’s face.

“GOD DAMN IT!” 

His fist had connected pretty solidly, but the corpse’s face is cold and it’s hard, and Christ Almighty, his knuckles sting at the impact. Stan stumbles back, and upon noticing that the sailor hasn't so much as moved from where he stood, he makes an executive decision that the best course of action is to run real fast. He falls on to his ass and slides down the icy steps like an oversized penguin to rescue his brother. 

Moments later he’s still sliding, hurling himself right into the large room with the desk where Ford is on his back with his foot in the neck of the reanimated captain. The momentum from the slide continues, only slowing once he knocks into the frozen pants of the moldy captain. Everyone topples, the frozen corpse falling on top of Stanley who quickly begins to grapple with him. 

“Ford, run!” 

Ford’s on the ground, face bleeding from some sort of head wound, and he stares at Stan and shakes his head. He yells something, Stan’s not sure what because of the frozen zombie starts choking the life out of him. As his head slams repeatedly against the floor he sees his brother reaching into his waistband and pulling out his gun. 

The captain’s head shatters into a hundred pieces from the impact of a laser (or some sonic ray or whatever), and Stan’s quickly on his feet and grabbing his brother’s arm to drag him off towards the top deck. They’re greeted by the same sailors who had been trying to keep him from Ford, but in the few short minutes they were fighting the captain a mob of lurching, crunchy corpses has grown. 

One of the corpsicles gets a length of frozen rope over Stan’s head and pulls hard, dragging him back against the mast. “What is it with you guys and wanting to choke me?” he barks, struggling and kicking and seeing stars around the edge of his vision as the rope is pulled tighter. Or maybe it’s the cataracts - either way at this point. He tries to claw at the jagged rope digging into his throat, sharp and hard from being frozen so long, and then there’s a loud blast and freedom, sweet, sweet freedom. 

Stanley gasps and falls to his knees, trying to pull air back into his lungs. There’s four pairs of slow moving feet lurching towards him, but Ford is suddenly by his side and hauling him up. “Over, over!” he yells, hurrying for the ship’s railing. 

He all but pushes Stan over, who rolls down the icy hull of the ship and slides across the frozen sea. Ford’s thrown himself over as well, sliding down on his back far more gracefully than his brother. Stan looks back at the ship to see if the ghouls are giving chase. They’re still shuffling across the deck of the ship, and they’re clearly not happy about the present arrangement. 

Suddenly he spies a glint of metal in the hands of one of the sailors. It looks like -- does one of them have a gun? Stan doesn’t think it’s possible that thing can fire after all of these years and -- oh no, he’s wrong, the corpse is throwing it. It lands on the ice with a weak little skid and Stanley begins to laugh. 

After all of that, after everything, the icy army of the undead can't leave their ship. It's pretty funny to watch them reach for things and try to hurl them over, Ford and Stanley both easily ducking out of the way to the point of mockery. After a while the twins exchange glances and they turn, starting the long walk back to the Stan O’ War II and leaving the sailors shaking their frozen fists in vain at their shrinking silhouettes. 

Once aboard the Stan O’ War II Ford brings up the anchor while Stan takes the wheel. Ford eventually stumbles his way from where he stood at the bow, hand brushing over Stanley's coat as he passes him by. He leans against the railing and, after meeting Stanley’s gaze once more, begins to laugh. Stan lays over the wheel and begins to do the same, wheezing until his chest hurts from the cold and his sides ache. 

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his throat, “after all that I think I need a heating pad." 

Ford moves so fast that Stan doesn’t even realize he’s beside him until he feels the broad hand touching his back. He reaches for Stanley, bringing him up from the wheel and gently touching all twelve fingers to his neck. “You should probably stop talking,” he smirks. "It'll help." Stanley can barely breathe, but he returns the smirk. 

The touch is so damn gentle that he swallows hard in spite of the pain. “I saw that grimace. Don’t do that either,” Ford tells him, one of his thumbs stroking his Adam's apple gently. Stan sighs softly, eyes slipping shut. 

“Feels good." Ford silently acknowledges him by turning Stan’s head, inspecting the cuts along his neck, the pads of his fingers still exploring his tender skin.

“We’ll sail out for a while, then drop anchor once we hit the coast,” he murmurs, tilting Stanley’s head the other way. “You need to get cleaned up.” 

Ford finally finishes his inspection and moves to pull away, but Stanley’s hands come up quickly to capture his wrists. The skin is so smooth under his palms. “You too. That gash on your face looks rough.” 

And he isn’t exaggerating. There are streaks of congealed blood running down his face, and Stanley’s concerned that the old sea captain has done some damage to him. 

His brother looks completely stricken. His eyes are wide and his mouth is parted, and Stan worries that he’s done something wrong. Ford licks his lips, and it makes Stan’s heart beat so fast that he thinks it might jump right out of his throat. “Sixer?” he asks, shaking him softly. “You okay?” 

Very slowly a smile returns to his Ford’s face. “Even if the captain still had his eyes he wouldn’t have seen you coming. Barreling down the stairs on your ass,” he laughs, and Stan feels so damned relieved he begins to laugh hoarsely right along with him. 

“Did the job though, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah, it did,” Ford says, shaking his head and stepping away. “Thanks, Stanley. This cut on my face could have been a lot worse.” 

Stanley smiles big. “That’s a hundred.” 

“A hundred? A hundred what?” 

Now it’s Stan’s turn to freeze. He can’t believe he’s said that out loud. He stares at his brother and tries the classic ‘I’m a dope, don’t mind me’ grin-and-a-shrug. That usually fixes it. 

It doesn’t fix it. 

“Hundred what?”

“Hundred...dollars. Yeah. You owe me a hundred dollars for saving you.” 

That does the job. Ford rolls his eyes and heads down into the hold, murmuring something about saving Stanley’s ass too. He leaves Stan to steer the Stan O’ War II back out into open water. 

His knees feel like jello, and that ache in chest feels like less ice and more like fire now. 

One hundred thank yous and he still feels like he’s missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words and reviews! This has been my first attempt at fic in a long while, so I’m rusty but so very, very appreciative. 
> 
> The ship mentioned here is the _Octavius_ , which is an old, 18th century ghost ship story. I borrowed the information about the captain’s moldy face and the last journal entry, with some alterations. 


	4. Kraken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone for commenting and liking and bookmarking and just being so supportive and lovely! I appreciate you all.

His mind comes and goes all that week. Sometimes it’s in the middle of a thought, sometimes a sentence, sometimes altogether, like it’s never been there in the first place. Zip, poof, gone. He wakes up with a giant gap his memory and has to go about his day like nothing’s wrong. 

It lasts longer and longer each time, the memory gap. He forgets Shermie. He forgets the Shack. He forgets Soos. He occasionally forgets little things too, like his favorite snack food or the prison fight that gave him that scar above his knee. Then one day he forgets the twins, and that one hurts like a sonofabitch when it finally comes back to him hours later.

He’s horrified each time the fog finally lifts, but not remembering his twins is just too much for Stan to handle. He spends the rest of that evening on the deck staring into the blackness of the sea. Ford doesn't approach, and he’s glad. He doesn't want him to know how low he’s sunk.  
_________________________________

Ford’s noticed the deterioration all along. Honestly though, he’d have to be standing in a corner with his fingers in his ears not to spot the awkwardness that results from his brother’s memory loss. Stanley’s not nearly as smooth as he pretends to be, and sometimes those lapses in his memory stand out so badly that it’s laughable. It happened just the other day too. Ford had casually mentioned Dipper’s last letter to them - something about Mabel’s latest crush and how this kid is most definitely a vampire this time for sure - and Stan’s face had gone blank. He stared for a long time at Ford, nodding away even though clearly nothing was connecting inside that coconut of his, humming and harrumphing in some small attempt at conversation. Ford was careful to not press the subject after that, but it strikes him now at how stubborn his brother must be to ignore his blatant concern.

It really shouldn’t be surprising. Stubborn as a Mule is their family’s unofficial motto.

As usual, Ford turns to journaling in order to parcel away his own thoughts. It’s the fourth journal in his series technically, though the others sadly didn't survive the Weirdmageddon. And oddly enough this one’s quickly become his Stanley journal, the pages filling with observations about his brother in an attempt to unlock the secret to the memory-easing ray. His intention had been to write about the oddities they were sure to encounter on their journey, but his mind is too wholly occupied by his brother to stray too far from the given subject. 

He begins the journaling with the scientific process in mind. If he can discover a pattern to the memory loss then maybe he can have his brother back -- all of his brother, not just bits and pieces. They both deserve that much. Stanley’s suffered without him more than Ford cares to imagine, and it isn’t fair that he had to give up what little he did have to save them all. 

The thought gives him a sharp jolt and up his body snaps up, eyes wide as they raked across the rocky, snow-capped coast in front of him. It’s calm on the other side of the bay, not a single thing amiss. Ford shivers and attempts to scribble out the words he’d written only moments before. God forbid if Stanley should find the journal. He had a nasty habit of leaving it out now that it didn’t contain any universe-destroying blueprints. 

Speak of the devil, his brother decides to take that exact moment to cross behind him to check on one of the fishing lines. 

“It’s too shallow here,” he grunts, tugging on the line in dissatisfaction. “Nothing’s living down there.”

“Something is,” Ford counters, shutting his journal quickly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “My maps indicate there are miles and miles of caves underneath this island.” 

“It’s not an island,” his brother grumbles, “it’s a buncha rocks.” 

Ford shrugs, “either way, Stanley, the caves are the important thing. Where there are caves there could be a previously undiscovered life form.”

“Eh.” His brother plops himself down on the edge of the railing, cracks open a beer and sighs loudly. “A big squid isn’t that impressive. Those things wash up on the beach all the time. It’s six o’clock news bait.”

“It’s not a big squid, dammit,” Ford moans. “How many times do we have to go over this, it could have links with the legendary -- oh, you’re doing it again.”

Sure enough his brother is grinning broadly, looking at Ford like he’s the biggest sucker he’s ever seen. He takes a big gulp from his beer and shakes his head. “Every time. How’d you get so gullible?”

“It’s not gullibility,” Ford replies with a huff. “I’m just used to not having to repeat myself.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m hard of hearing in my old age.” His brother smirks and tugs on one of his endearingly large ears.

“You’re blind as a bat too,” Ford reminds him. It’s come back to him so easily, this back-and-forth. It’s such a simple, stupid little thing, and he used to hate that he missed it as much as he did. Now, of course, he indulges himself regularly. 

“And my back’s as crooked as a question mark.” 

“Your knees are gnarly too.” 

“I’m hairier than a bear and twice as cranky.” 

“Hey,” Ford interjects, plucking at one of the lines absently,“a hairy chest is an evolutionary advantage.”

Stanley sits on the rail where the lines are tied off, prodding a couple with a shrug. “What about hairy shoulders?”

“Oh...hm. Double advantage, probably.”

“Yeah,” Stan smirks, and Ford grins at the sound, “double advantage sounds right.” 

Ford smiles and averts his gaze from Stanley’s. His brother is doing that wide-mouthed laugh now, the one where his whole body shakes and his head falls back so it’s practically shouted into the sky. It a variant on the one Ford remembers from when they were kids, only usually Stanley punctuates the belly laugh with a good slap on the knee or a punch to a nearby arm. He watches him slyly, then turns his attention to one of the lines. 

Slack, all of them. Was he wrong about the kind of bait he should use? He decides to spend some time mulling over this, elbows pressed against the rail of the boat as he gazes sullenly into the icy sea. 

“What’s wrong?” His brother joins him without an invitation, burly arms hidden by a thick, woolen coat leaning right up against his. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll lure something out.” 

Ford can’t help but smile. “You’re right,” he says with a firm nod, “we will. It’s not all bad here either. The bay shelters us from the wind, we can collect snow for drinking water, there’s plenty of fish--”

“There’s a unicorn in the water.”

“There’s a unicorn in the water...wait, what?” Ford raises his head and follows Stanley’s outstretched arm and hand. Stanley is clearly looking right at something, but Ford has to squint into the distance for a while until he sees movement. “Is that a…”

“A unicorn, yeah.” 

“No, you idiot, it’s a narwhal.” Ford rolls his eyes and grabs his binoculars off the hook on the cabin wall. “It’s not a horn, it’s a tusk. And there are two of them...no, wait, three...four...five...it’s a whole pod.” 

Stanley’s still squinting off into the distance, so Ford passes him the binoculars and lets him have a long look. He loops the strap about his neck and brings the lenses up to his glasses, staring through and whistling when he sets his eyes on them. He’s clearly impressed. “Sea unicorns.” 

Ford just about boxes him, but does the next best thing and yanks the binoculars down from Stanley’s eyes, who chokes on the strap. “You wouldn’t know majesty if it came up and bit you on the ass.” He shakes his head and Stanley snatches the binoculars back with a wide grin. 

“I knew a hooker named Majesty. She might have been a biter.” 

Ford makes a well-honed look of disgust and turns to leave his brother to his debauched thoughts. Lewd, always so lewd. He doesn’t know how he managed to hold his tongue a whole summer around the twins. That was the true mystery of the Mystery Shack. 

“Heh. There’s more of ‘em,” he hears Stanley remark, but he’s already inside the cabin trying to warm up his feet. He does want to spend a little time watching the narwhals, but he suspects this might be their hunting ground. They were probably here for the same reason he and Stanley had decided to stay, even though there hasn't been a single trace of the kraken yet.

He settles down on to the bench with a cup of tea, taking out his notebook and his pen and resuming his scribbles. His brother is still running around the boat with the binoculars pressed up to his glasses, yelling and pointing and waving to get Ford’s attention. He feels like a parent at a park with his attention-starved child. He waves back to him, dismissing him as he looks up narwhal migratory patterns on his phone. 

God, he loves his phone and its wireless internet. Sometimes being trapped outside one’s home dimension has its perks, like returning to find that the world’s technology has moved out of the beeper era.

He turns to a new page in his journal and begins to scribble down narwhal facts, pausing to begin a quick sketch of a male with his tusk poking out of the water. 

Closest relative = beluga whale  
Name derived from Norse word for corpse  
Males rub tusks together to communicate  
Tusks can tell weather?  
Adorable? _Yes_.

“Geez, Sixer, you gotta come out here!”

Stanley’s at the door, but the giddiness from before has been replaced by what looks like worry. Worry and Stanley Pines was never a reassuring mix.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the horny fish, they’re--”

“Narwhals, and they’re mammals.” He’s putting his gloves back on as he’s following Stanley back outside, annoyed at being dragged from his journaling and tea.

“Ford, just...just look at ‘em!” He gives his brother a shove towards the rail and Ford finally lifts his head. 

And yes, alright, maybe Stanley’s excitement earlier wasn't for nothing. “There’s….hundreds of them.” Maybe even thousands of narwhals, all raising their tusks above the water or slapping their tails against the waves.

“They just started to swarm like that, Ford. It’s crazy. Is this normal?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, walking to the side of the Stan O’ War and leaning over. Stanley calms down enough to join him, but he’s shaking his head like he still can’t believe it. “Could be, but there’s so many…”

“They’re rare, right?” Stanley asks, leaning over to peer down directly below them. The narwhals aren't bothering to keep their distance from the boat. If they wanted to they could reach out and touch them, but neither of them seem to be feeling that stupid.

“Yeah...don't get any ideas. There isn't a market for narwhal tusk.” Which is a lie, but it’s best to squash the thought before it can even take hold.

“Woah, woah, what do you think I am, some kind of monster? I don't want to hurt them!” Stanley looks down into the water and shakes his head. “I mean, have you seen the size of them! I could throw out my back trying to haul something like that on to the boat.”

Ford ignores his brother’s instinct to immediately size up the cash value of everything he sees and just nods his head in agreement. The narwhals are very large; the tusks on some of them have to be nearly ten feet long. It’s impressive. He just hopes they don’t get too close to the Stan O’ War II. 

Somehow Stanley reads his brother’s mind, because the next thing he shouts is, “the lines!” He reels back and rushes to where a couple of rope lines had been tethered -- their makeshift kraken trap. “Sixer, help me! They’re gonna get tangled or hurt!” 

He doesn’t expect his brother to be so worried about the animals, so the sentiment surprises him. Normally his rational side would win out against Stanley’s panic too, but for whatever reason he jumps up and starts wildly pulling at the lines as well. The narwhals might not be accustomed to fishing lines and nets, but even if they were there’s just so many of them…

Eventually Stanley gives up trying to untie the ropes altogether. He storms off, leaving Ford tugging helplessly against the knots and wishing he had his damn blaster. He doesn't struggle for very long though, as five seconds later Stanley’s marching back with a determined look on his face and a small hatchet in his hand. Ford immediately jumps back, and the full weight behind his brother’s swing comes down on the lines. The ropes slip silently into the sea, and Stan turns and does the same to the cluster on the other side of the ship.

The narwhals are safe from human interference, but now they’re out a bunch of rope. Ford perches himself on the edge of the railing and Stanley does the same, both silently staring out into the sea. 

“No kraken, huh.” 

“Looks like it,” replies Ford blearily. He’s okay with it though. Whatever the anomaly was, it had to have been long gone by now. 

Out of morbid curiosity he taps his watch until the globe pops up, but the thing has to be broken or on the fritz. The red dot from earlier is still there, still glowing angrily out at him. He taps it again, then gives his wrist a firm shake.

Under their feet there comes a low rumble. 

“That can’t be a coincidence,” he mutters, eyes widening as he looks from the tracker, red dot growing ever larger, to his brother whose mouth has gone agape. 

“Uh…” 

“We…”

“Should move, right?” Stanley finishes for him. 

“Well, what if…” He trails off, because whatever he was going to say was interrupted by another rumble. It all clicks for him then, and he pales. “It’s not the narwhals’ hunting ground, it’s the kraken’s.”

“Yep, yep,” Stanley replies, slapping his knees and getting to his feet. He casually walks over to the anchor and begins hauling it up. “Yep, getting the hell out of here. Hey, Sixer, wanna take the wheel and, ya know, floor it already?”

Ford really doesn’t need to be told twice. The poor narwhals haven’t a clue what’s about to happen, but it’s not possible to save them. It must be some migratory instinct that drives them here, or maybe the kraken lures their prey into the bay and strikes then, or perhaps --

“Sixer! Jesus Christ, let’s go!”

The clatter of the metal anchor hitting the deck rings out and Ford starts to gun the engine. For a moment it looks like the narwhals are moving out of the way for them, but then slowly the path of cleared sea begins to rise. There isn’t any time to think, Ford’s aiming to drive the boat up and over. Up and up the water goes, taller and higher, the engine straining as Ford tries to clear it. 

“What the hell’s going on?” Stanley’s yelling, standing beside him and looking helplessly over the rail for the answer. 

And then in an instant the wall of water bursts, the Stan O’ War riding the crest of the wave down and back towards the rocks, a salt spray temporarily blinding them and covering the area with mist. It rains down on them for a moment, until finally the water stops falling and they’re met with the sight of a massive spiral column rising up from where their boat had just been. 

It’s silent save for the noise of thousands of narwhals slapping their flukes on the surface of the water, which takes on an eerie-sounding clapping as the column continues to rise. 

Another wave crashes into the Stan O’ War, and this time Ford can actually see something bubbling up beneath the ocean. The boat rocks violently and he’s thrown into the wheel, and much to his horror he sees his brother pitch right over the side. 

He screams his name. 

“I’ll get you! I’ll get you!” Ford has to practically crawl on his hands and knees to get towards the edge. “Stanley, I’ll get you! Stan, please -- hold on!” 

He’s clawing at the deck, searching wildly for a life preserver or a remaining length of rope. Anything. Everything. He’s swallowing salt water, it’s in his eyes and fogging his glasses, the boat’s rocking as though the water’s being drained right out from underneath it--

And then it all stops. The boat falls to one side and Ford immediately rolls right out onto a smooth, sloped surface. The impact of the boat was so rough and unexpected that he keeps right on tumbling though, falling further and further, head rolling over feet. He’s certain that he’s going to barrel right into the narwhal-infested water, but something snags his coat rather roughly and jerks him backwards.

“Ford, dig your feet in!” 

He does exactly that, and to his surprise he feels grounded. His brother pulls him up the rest of the way, and it takes all of ten seconds to realize two things:

1\. Stanley is not dead

2\. They’re standing on the head of a giant narwhal

The first thing makes his knees tremble. He grabs Stanley’s arms and hauls himself up, just wanting to touch and hold but using the excuse of needing his brother’s large, steady frame for purchase. Not dead. Not even injured. Just fine. Stanley’s just fine. 

He finally pulls back, adjusts his glasses and looks out. “Holy...” They must be at least four stories up, and surrounding them are so many narwhals that the entire sea looks spotted. They're all still clapping too, slapping their tailfins against the waves, noise surrounding and enveloping them completely. 

“Yeah,” his brother agrees, “holy shit.” He steps away and carefully starts walking towards the front of the creature’s head, gingerly picking his way over to keep himself from slipping. “That horn’s enormous. I bet it weighs a ton.”

Ford doesn’t answer him. He’s still in mild shock, having been thoroughly convinced that the anomaly they’d been searching for was the legendary kraken, not...this. He follows his brother and checks the anomaly tracker -- the dot’s right underneath them now. 

“That must be why all these narwhals are here,” he begins to muse out loud, pacing carefully along the spotted-grey skin, “it’s...their leader. Their god, maybe. They must all migrate here, to this point, to...what, though? To worship it?”

The creature lets out a sudden screech, then begins to bellow so loudly it throws both twins right onto their backs. The surface beneath them starts to shake once more, and Ford balks as he realizes the slope is increasing at an alarming rate. “Stanley, it’s going to rear up!” 

“ _What_?”

“Narwhals, they rear up out of the water! It’s going to try to stick its tusk into the air!”

“Jesus, it’s gonna kill us if it does!” Stanley cries, rolling on to his stomach to try and grasp at the head. Ford follows suit, grimacing as his fingers slip from the nonexistent hold. “We’ve got to jump off or something!” 

Ford looks down again. They were even higher now; the fall would certainly kill them. “We’ve got to stop it! Maybe it just doesn’t know we’re on its head!” 

“Stop it! Stop it how?” His brother’s voice is cracking now. The creature is still steadily rearing back, and Ford can feel his body start to slide. Behind them he hears the sound of the Stan O’ War II crashing into the ocean below. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” There doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go but up. “Stan, we’ve got to climb to the tusk!” 

It’s their only chance. He doesn’t know how the hell they’re going to be able to pull themselves up, but he knows if they don’t try then it’s into the drink with them. He swings one of his arms out and attempts to push himself up, but almost immediately he feels his other foot start to slide. His grip is next to go, and before it can even register he’s starting to fall once again. 

He sees the rescue coming this time. Stanley’s arm latches itself firmly around his waist, his other outstretched and holding one end of the already-discharged grappling hook. “Hold on!” he shouts, and they’re suddenly zipping up the narwhal’s massive head and over to the flat of its broad face. 

The laugh that escapes Ford is loud and happy and relieved. 

The grappling hook reels back with a satisfying snap. The world looks a lot safer from their vantage point at the base of the tusk, but Stanley keeps his hold on his brother, and tightly too, as if they both still flying through the air. Ford is still laughing too, but he begins to quiet when the movement underneath their feet comes to a complete standstill. The narwhal’s stopped rearing back. 

“Stanley,” he breathes, pulling his brother away from the tusk, “careful. He can feel that.” He doesn’t make him move his arm though. 

“Does he...know we’re up here?” Stanley asks, his voice hushed. 

“I think so, yes.” 

The smaller, normal-sized narwhals have stopped their clapping. The quiet that follows is frightening.

“What now?” Stanley asks aloud, but Ford can’t answer him. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. It feels like the entire moment’s frozen. 

“Stan,” he murmurs, very much still looking down at the sea below. He raises his hand to Stanley’s chest, touching his palm and all six fingers to him. “If I thank you for saving me twice, are you going to count it as only one thank you?”

He sputters, but Ford grins. Of course he’s figured out Stanley’s odd game; his brother’s not that slick after all. He pats him fondly. “You’re weird too. Just remember that.” 

Stanley’s face is beet red, but he finally manages a grin. “Whatever you say, Poindexter.”

The moment, whatever it might have been, is lost when the narwhal’s massive head sways. Ford trips and practically falls right into Stanley, who manages to catch him and push them both against the tusk. Ford digs his hands into the grooves tightly, head spinning. 

“He’s going back down!”

“I thought you said he knows we’re here!”

“Yes, that might be why! Hold on!”

Stanley does not need to be told again. They cling to the tusk as the narwhal starts to push its head forward, gradually lowering itself closer and closer towards the water. “When we get close to the water we need to jump,” Ford yells. He doesn’t know if Stanley hears him. 

The gigantic creature’s head tips forward and they’re pushed on to their stomachs, and in the midst of the yelling and general panic Ford feels Stanley take hold of his shirt and wrap his fist tightly in the cloth. They meet the water with a loud-sounding splash, and Ford scrambles to try to get them up and over before the narwhal submerges. 

It never does. 

Instead, as they slowly climb back up, they realize that the creature has set them down within reach of the Stan O’ War II, which is miraculously still in one piece and afloat. Dazed, but not enough to press their luck by lingering, Ford pulls his brother up and walks him down the length of the tusk. It serves as a big gangplank, leading them right to the edge of the ship where they’re able to scramble back up over the side. 

Everything’s ruined and waterlogged, but Ford is laughing in relief as surveys the narwhal from the relative safety of the Stan O’ War. Stanley, on the other hand, decides to lie right down against the deck, waving away offers to come and take a look at the narwhal, as Ford’s sure that he’s staring right at them now. Ford shrugs and steps over his brother to grasp the steering wheel. 

Tempted as he is to stay and study everything, he knows when he’s been given a free pass. He takes in one final look, then starts the overworked engine and sails them far, far away.  
_________________________________

It’s incredible how much abuse his back can take before it finally decides enough is enough and gives out on him. Stan’s decided that the soggy deck is the most comfortable place in the world though, and even though he’s half frozen he takes a little cat nap right then and there. 

When he wakes it’s dark. He’s not even sure the generator’s working, but there should at least be some backup lanterns in the hold. He gets up and his back screams at him, but he ignores it and continues shuffling along the small area between the rail and the hold. 

Someone’s at the steering wheel. The stranger looks up from a navigational panel and offers Stan a wide grin, arms folding over the dented wheel. The sight makes him feel warm inside; his heart spins wildly in his chest. 

He knows he should know him. He smiles right back at him, not out of obligation but because he wants to. 

“I’m going to get some lanterns,” he tells the stranger, who nods simply. 

“Great idea. How’s your back?”

“Hurts like a sonofabitch,” Stan answers, but now he’s grinning too. He passes the man at the wheel but pauses, thinking that there should be something more to this interaction. Quickly, unhesitantly, he turns and presses his lips to stranger’s cheek. It’s over in mere seconds, and he pulls himself back and casually begins to whistle as he heads into the cabin. 

He’s sure that was the right thing to do, even if he doesn’t know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, narwhals are the coolest. 


	5. Scrapbooks.

The generator doesn’t work. Fortunately the moon is bright, and there are plenty of electric lamps in the hold. Stanley strings them from the ceiling and by the stranger’s post at the wheel, and when he finishes he offers him something to drink.

“You look cold.”

“Coffee would probably be good about now,” the stranger replies, “as I need to find somewhere for us to anchor...assuming we still have the anchor, of course.”

Stan doesn't know why he’s on a boat with this man, but at the moment he’s okay with playing it by ear. His new buddy seems like he knows what’s going on, so instead of panicking he just decides to sort of...go along with it. It’s like waking up after getting blackout drunk. He doesn’t know how he’s wound up in this place, but if he follows the context clues he’s sure he’ll figure it out eventually. 

“I’ll make a pot and look for the anchor,” Stan tells him, waiting for the smile. It’s a brilliant smile. Sort of dorky but bright and earnest. 

The stranger nods tiredly, but there’s the smile, gracious and warm, and Stanley feels butterflies in his stomach again. 

The kitchen’s a mess, lots of soggy papers and shattered porcelain everywhere. Stan carefully works his way through the debris and searches through the cabinets until he finds the hot plate. He wonders quietly what sort of life this is, what their purpose is in sailing around the arctic looking for weirdness. Are they scientists? Authors? Collectors of the weird? Maybe they’re independently wealthy, and this is just what they do. It’d be one hell of a life if that were the case.

While the pot of water boils he pokes around the cabin in search of more clues, but he doesn’t find much to go on. He unearths maps and books and bits of tech, but they don’t do anything but trace the path they’d already traveled. There are some notebooks and a few boxes, but there’s too much everything and not enough time to sort it. He sets everything out to dry and goes back to the coffee. 

It takes them hours to find somewhere to anchor for the night. The stranger tells him they’re not so far away from Greenland, and that they might be able to find a town somewhere on the mainland the next day to restock, but for now they have to tie up to a tiny rock masquerading as an island. Stan thinks it’s fine though; everything’s mostly dried out, they still have enough food and fresh water to last a few more days, and the company’s good. That’s the most important part. 

When it’s time to sleep Stan spies the single bed without much alarm. It’d been clear to him this whole time that he and the stranger are close. Exactly how close -- well, Stanley decides not to guess. Guessing would only make him look like a jackass if he turns out to be wrong. 

He’s the first to change into a t-shirt and boxers and slip into bed. An hour later he hears the stranger approach, door closing behind him as he slips inside the tiny bedroom. Stanley listens for the sound of him taking off his glasses, and then he feels the bed dip as he slips in beside him. The room is quiet, peaceful, and the bed is warm and comfortable. Stan exhales softly, his tired eyes closing for the night. Beside him he hears the steady sound of the stranger softly breathing. 

There’s a touch to his back, soft and unsure, two or three fingers traveling up along his spine and then pausing. He shudders. After a moment of still, both of them frozen just like that, the stranger removes his hand and turns to face the wall. 

Stanley blinks into the darkness, his mouth going dry and his chest aching fiercely. His head hurts; the blankness in his brain is frustrating him. He needs something to hold on to, someone….he turns quickly, wrapping his arms firmly around the stranger and pushing his face into the back of his neck. His skin smells like salt water and a bit of sweat, and Stanley clings to him tightly, feeling the rise and fall of his chest despite his firm hold on him. 

The stranger does nothing at first. There’s just the noise of two of them breathing in a cramped room, Stanley’s hurried pant and the stranger’s shuddered gasps. Then the other man carefully tugs an arm away, six fingers covering Stanley’s calloused knuckles and lifting one of his hands to his mouth. He feels chapped lips kiss his palm, and his hand lingers there for what feels like ages before it’s finally set back down again. 

Stan falls asleep like that, the other man’s back pressed up against his chest, letting their breath sync up and their racing heartbeats slow.   
_________________________________

Ford wakes and begins his day with a spring in his step. Stanley’s still asleep, so he takes the liberty of making toast. 

Well, burning toast, but the second try goes alright. He never was much of a cook. 

Stanley remembers, and Ford can’t stop humming. He was beginning to think this day would never come, that he’d be sole keeper of the memories while his brother carried on unknowing and unburdened. He’s considered that maybe it’s a good thing, that what happened in the past was best left there, but he couldn’t help but be selfish and hope. And now here it was, Stanley remembers, and Ford is practically giddy with anticipation of what could be. 

He tries his hand at frying some eggs and succeeds, the sizzle of the oil in the skillet apparently waking Stanley, who pokes his head out of the folded divider and smiles. His hair’s wild, his shirt rumpled, and his glasses are resting crookedly on his reddened nose. “Did you make breakfast?”

Ford grins and nods, pointing to the plate at the table. Stanley takes a seat, groaning no doubt from the injury to his back from yesterday. “Coffee’s almost ready too. Did you stretch this morning?”

“Did I what?”

“Stretch.” He pours some coffee into a mug with some cream, no sugar, and passes it to Stanley. It’s just the way his brother likes it. “It’ll help your back if you do.” 

“Mn, no, I didn’t stretch. This? This is nothing some percocet won’t fix.” He sips the coffee and looks surprised; Ford just assumes he’s impressed by the fact that he didn’t burn it too. 

“You brought oxycodone with you?” He shakes his head and begins a long, drawn out sigh. Time for a talk about chemical dependency. “Stanley….”

“Relax, relax,” his brother replies, waving and setting the cup down. “It was a joke. Seriously though, if you’re recommending yoga or whatever for my back, you can forget about it. I’m not into that hippie, new-age bullshit.” 

Ford scoffs and eats a piece of toast. “You’re so stubborn, it could really help you and you won’t even try it.”

“If I didn’t look so ridiculous doing it….I bet. Not that I’ve ever tried.”

He snorts. “You have, haven’t you? Can’t believe I missed that spectacle. You probably weren’t doing it right.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert?” Stanley retorts. “And as a matter of fact, no, I’ve never tried it. Believe it or not, putting my leg behind my head and wrapping myself into a pretzel of pain doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of a good time.”

“Stanley.” Ford starts to laugh at him. God, the man was ridiculous. “Let me just show you a couple of stretches. You don’t have to do them, but you do have to shut up for two minutes.” 

Stanley crosses his arms over his chest, smirking. “I make no such promise.” 

Ford pulls himself to his feet anyway. He clears out some space to move around, then begins demonstrating some simple exercises his brother can do to make his spine feel less like it’s about to go AWOL. He feels a bit silly at first, stretching in the kitchen for an audience, but then after a while Stanley rises and begins to mimic him, grunting and groaning but surprisingly doing a good job keeping up with him. 

“Hey, you know…” Stanley remarks, bent over with his fingers hovering over his toes, “this actually feels pretty good.” 

“Told you, Stanley.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Being a know-it-all is not a good look on anyone,” he replies, straightening up and then arching backwards with his hands on his hips. “Even someone as you cute as you.” 

Ford feels the blush start to rise from somewhere around his knees. It colors his neck and his face, and he turns and reaches for his coffee with an embarrassed little cough. He knows Stanley’s grinning, probably smugly so, but he’s not prepared to turn back around to see for himself yet. 

“Uh huh,” he finally manages, “you should probably eat your breakfast. That toast won’t keep.” 

There’s a strong grip on his arm and Ford is spun back around. Stanley’s staring him down and holding tight, leaning in too, too close. A laugh dies on his lips, and Ford finds himself pushing forward so that their foreheads almost touch. There’s ocean and coffee in the air between them, Ford’s heart beating so loudly that he just knows Stan can hear it. 

He’s terrified of this. He grabs Stan’s arm and swallows hard, silently begging him for help. If this is what Stanley wants, he wants it too. He’s been waiting for it, but he needs him to lead again. He’s too cowardly to move forward on his own. Lingering in this moment is utterly agonizing, but Stanley is impatient and presses his lips gently against Ford’s all too easily. 

The kiss is so heartbreakingly sweet and chaste. It's familiar too; Ford can’t help but be reminded of warm summer breezes and the feeling of sand between his toes. His legs tremble and his touch to Stan’s arm loosens, and in response Stanley holds him tighter, like he doesn’t want to let go. When Ford does return the kiss it’s soft and careful. He presses back ever-so-slightly and asks for no more. He’s afraid it’ll all crumble around his feet if he does. 

Stanley finally pulls away and Ford reacts by automatically stepping back. It was the wrong response though; a look of panic crosses Stanley’s face and Ford wants to kick himself. “Hey? Is that….was that too much? I’m sorry.” 

It doesn’t sound like Stanley, apologizing so readily like that or being so self aware, but Ford’s mind is still whirling about a hundred miles an hour. He shakes his head quickly and puts his hands on Stanley’s arms. “No, no, it’s fine,” he tries to reassure him. This is not how he wanted this to go. “It was…perfect. Please don’t apologize. It’s just...well, you know.”

There’s a blank stare on Stanley’s face. He doesn’t know. Why doesn't he know?

“It’s…it’s a lot,” he explains slowly, trying to get Stanley to follow along with him. “And it’s...been a long time, Stanley.” 

“It has?” 

Ford’s immediately suspicious. His first instinct is to stare into Stanley’s pupils, but no, they aren’t dilated. He quickly inspects his head for bruises or cuts, but no, he definitely didn’t hit his head. Damn. An injury would have been so much easier to deal with. “Yes….” he says carefully, now shooting a skeptical glance his way, “it has. Stanley?”

Stanley looks, frankly, like a deer caught in the headlights. “Yeah?”

It still amazes Ford how quickly a person can move from one emotion to the next. It's like the shittiest superpower. First it was hope, overwhelming in how strong its hold had been, then it was joy, pure and simple and tremendously addicting, now it’s unbridled horror, all in the span of about a minute. He backs away from Stanley and he knows he’s wearing the horror plain as day right on his face. 

“Stanley, what’s my name?” 

Stanley doesn’t answer right away, and that’s Ford’s answer right there. He looks pained and frightened. Ford feels like a complete fool.

“I...don’t know.” 

He doesn’t know how long Stanley’s been without his memory. He didn’t notice; he should have noticed! He has pages and pages of observational data, and yet for all of that careful study he’d missed the biggest memory lapse yet. His brother’s been hurting and he was too blind to see it. 

No, not too blind to see it. He's quick to correct himself, for it’s so much worse than that. He’s been selfish. He knows if it had been any other memory he would have caught it almost immediately, but Stanley forgot _him_. He forgot who he was to him, forgot their past together and their present. This was all new to Stanley, and Ford had inadvertently taken advantage of it. 

“I’m sorry,” Stanley then whispers, and god, Ford’s heart breaks all over again. Yes, he’d lied to save face, but it isn’t his fault. None of this is his fault. 

“No, no,” Ford replies, trying to push all the anxiety and concern down. He just needs to jog his memory. He reaches for Stanley’s arm and tries to sit him down at the table. “No, it’s okay. This...this won’t last. Just...here. Here.” 

He wheels around and begins to dig a little frantically, eventually coming back up from a massive pile of notebooks and folders with an old, ratty-looking shoebox. It gets set down and open in front of Stanley so its contents could be freely rifled through, but poor, poor Stanley just continues to sit there, wide-eyed and apologetic. 

“Look, Stanley,” Ford says, voice cracking as he holds up a ripped picture. He knows he’s about to hurt Stanley even worse. He keeps pushing forward. “Look, it’s you and me on the first Stan O’War. Remember? We found that ship together. We worked on it for years. We’d sit on it for hours and hours just talking about the adventures we were going to have when we were older.”

It’s all met with a blank stare. Ford frowns. “Okay, how about...this one? You and me in our fourth grade play. I was a tree and you were a bush. Ma borrowed one of those old cameras from Dad’s shop to film it, even though we didn’t do anything but stand there. Remember? Then Patty Nelson got stage fright and threw up?” 

Nothing again. Ford takes a seat beside him, and he’s trying not to sob. He thought this might happen, but it hurts so much more than he’d realized it would. “Here’s...look, it’s us in high school. We’re standing in front of your first car. You must have worked three jobs that summer to save up. I barely saw you, but I was the first one you took for a spin in it.”

“Dad gave me a lousy handshake when I brought her home. Didn’t even tell me he was proud of me or nothin’,” Stanley mumbles. Ford’s heart leaps into his throat again. “Dad...our….”

“Yes, our father,” Ford says, and he’s cringing outwardly. He points to himself in the image, young and dorky and so, so proud of his brother. He taps his face, the face of an the idiot boy who was a year away from getting his brother thrown out of the house. Stanley doesn’t seem to be too upset by the revelation, oddly enough. He just shakes his head sadly. 

“No, sorry….” he murmurs. He puts his hands to the table and pushes himself up. “I’ve...I need to be alone, I think. I’m...it’s....” 

Ford is still holding on to the photograph as Stanley stumbles away, still muttering excuses. The things his brother must have been thinking when he realized who he was. Outrage, disgust? It’s not like Stanley to hide that sort of thing, but Ford continues his catastrophic thinking. No wonder Stan was in such a hurry to get away. 

Ford looks down at the picture again and feels like crumbling it. He stays his hand though -- the picture is a snapshot of happier times. He’d been in love then. In all honesty he’s in love now, but maybe asking his brother to remember a lifetime ago and all the years in between is just too much to ask. 

Ford pulls a map into his lap and begins to chart their way to the nearest town.   
_________________________________

Stan stays in the bedroom until nightfall doing some reading. There’s a collection of letters and postcards from the twins, but he’s been spending most of his time pouring over the scrapbooks Mabel made him take with him. Ford isn’t mentioned at all in the beginning of the books, but then suddenly he’s there a lot at the end. It had been a dramatic summer for everyone. 

He dresses in his life vest and coat and leaves the little cabin, finding his brother at the wheel again. Apparently they’ve been sailing for most of the day and Stan just hadn’t noticed. 

He meets Ford’s eyes and then they both glance away. 

“Is it back?” Ford asks gruffly, the warmth from the previous night completely gone. He’s staring stiff as a board and looking straight ahead, and a little part of Stan wants to laugh at how silly it is even if he doesn’t know why. 

“No, it’s not back.” He leans against the side of the boat. “I’ve tried everything I could.” 

“It’ll come back,” Ford tells him, trying too hard to sound authoritative about the whole thing. “It always does. We need to just give it time.” 

Stanley thinks he likes Ford better when he was just a stranger. 

“What if it doesn’t?” he asks softly. 

The question seems to have gotten Ford’s attention. His shoulders begin to droop, his fingers slide down the wheel; he seems lost in thought. He finally turns to meet Stan’s eye and he looks...he looks like a kicked puppy, that’s how he looks. “It will, Stanley. Just keep looking at the pictures. You’ve got Mabel’s scrapbooks too, right? She’s thorough. It’ll help.” 

“But….” Stan clasps his hands in front of him, toying with a couple gold rings he’d found in one of his bags. He’d found a mirror amongst the jewelry too, and spent a good hour wondering if he’d seen his reflection earlier if he would have acted the way he had with Ford. He can’t say for sure, but he suspects not. 

“Ford.” He knows he’s sounding tired and old. It’s what he was, after all, and he’s really feeling it at the moment. “I need you to help me remember. It’s been too long now. It never lasts this long.”

“Stanley...I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why not?” Ford shakes his head and angrily grips the wheel. “You know why not, Stanley. I’m surprised you can even face me.” 

“Ford...come on.” Stan’s back his hurting him again, so he gets up and tries another one of those stretches. By the time he stands up straight again Ford almost has a smile on his face. “Yeah, that’s right, I listen to you. I guess I don’t do that a lot so that’s why you’re surprised.” He sighs, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “Ford...you’ve gotta help me here.” 

The other man shakes his head again, the dazed, affectionate stare on his face disappearing. “I...I can’t. I think I’ve been asking too much of you, and I’m sorry for that.” 

“Ford!” Stanley curses loudly and it makes Ford jump. “Jesus, stop acting so weird around me! I need your help, you asshole!” 

Ford is speechless, which is exactly what Stan had wanted. Shock ‘em into listening, it always worked. “Yeah, that’s right,” he continues, beginning to pace the length of the tiny deck, “just...just quit it with all of that. I’m obviously not about to lose any sleep over what happened. I’m standing here, aren’t I? I’m talking to you? I want my memory back, don’t I? There must some part of me...you know what? It doesn’t matter. None of that matters right now, okay? Let's just pretend it didn't happen and move on. I can, so can you. Don’t be a stubborn jackass, Ford. Don’t let me lose you again. Don’t do...this. Don’t make me fight this on my own.” 

He brings a hand up to his head, digging a finger into his temple and staring his brother down. “You don’t know how much it _hurts_ to forget something this important. I don’t feel right, Ford. I feel empty and weird. My brain is all kind of fuzzy, and when I'm staring at those pictures of us as kids I feel like I'm being torn apart from the inside out." His brother opens his mouth, then closes it. Stanley nods. “That’s right. Don’t be stubborn. You need to help me.” 

Ford looks torn, but he eventually nods. “Yes, of course I’ll help,” he whispers, “of course. How though?”

Stanley practically crumples in relief. He even reaches out for one of the lines on the ship to steady himself. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out. That’s how I’m going to remember.” 

“And what if there are things you’d rather forget?”

Stan smiles lopsidedly. “Ford, whatever it is, it’s better than not knowing at all.”

It has to be, doesn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but I'm super thankful for all the positive response this dumb little pet project of mine has received. And the comments! So insightful! So enthusiastic! Thank you all. (I also just realized like...today that you can reply to comments on this site, so hurhur, just you all wait.)
> 
> No sea monsters or spooky ghosts in this chapter, but maybe the next one? Or maybe more angsssssttttttt.


	6. Interlude.

Dear Dipper and Mabel, 

We’re sorry for not writing. We’ve been at sea for weeks, and this is the first port we’ve come across. To be fair, it isn’t even much of a port. The population sits at 450 people, depending on if someone’s dying or giving birth that day, but there’s a hotel and food, and most importantly access to a postal system to take this letter to you. The town’s called Ittoqqortoormiit, by the way. Your Grunkle’s taken to calling it Vowel Village. 

We don’t intend on staying very long in Ittoqqortoormiit. It was difficult to find through the growing ice floes, and it’s only a matter of weeks until they completely enclose the town and trap anyone still here. As much as I wouldn’t mind trekking inland to do some research, I don’t think your Uncle Stanley would be very happy. He’s already made enemies in the town - hustling billiards down at the local pub in case you wanted to know….don’t tell your parents - so I can’t imagine he’d take well to being stuck at scientific research center all winter.

Speaking of your uncle, he wanted very much to write to the both of you himself. Unfortunately the run-in at the Vowel Village Pub led to a fracture in the first metacarpal in his right hand, so now he’s sulking in a corner of the room trying to determine the origins the meat in his suaasat (I’m fairly certain it’s harp seal). I think we’re doing well for ourselves though, considering this is the first real injury either one of us has received since leaving the states, anticlimactic as it is. 

Stan is insistent that I write a hello from him. He also wants me to tell you that misses you two knuckleheads, but not enough to come back from the trip yet. Maybe we’ll be around for the holidays, if your parents haven’t completely disowned him for lying to them all their lives. (I’m sure that isn’t the case. I also hope to meet your parents at some point too, as I bet they’re as curious about me as I am about them. Whether that curiosity is good or bad depends on how much you’ve told them, but we’ll just see at the holidays, won’t we? Send them my best regards anyway!)

Dipper, enclosed are a couple pages outlying the anomalies your uncle and I have experienced on our journey so far. If you have a moment to look them over, I’d very much like to hear your thoughts. I’m particularly interested in the events on the third page...you’ll see what I mean when you get there. 

Mabel, enclosed is the tip of a narwhal horn we found embedded in the side of our boat. I’m sure Dipper will explain further once he’s finished reading the material I’ve given him. It sadly doesn’t have any magical properties, but Stan was adamant that you’d enjoy it anyway. 

I know you were both worried when we started making plans to set out, but trust me, we’ve been doing fine. I’ve been watching out for Stanley and he watches out for me, and we’re only fighting a little. We’re both too stubborn not to fight at all, so don’t read too much into that. 

Try to stay out of trouble - we’re trying our best too. 

Love,

Ford and Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I image Stanley actually calls Ittoqqortoormiit "too many fucking q's and vowels", but you know, gotta keep it clean for the kiddos.


	7. Deviation.

“Stanley, if you didn’t keep picking fights this wouldn’t keep happening.”

“I don’t do it on pur-----YEEOUCH! Are you trying to rip my hand off?”

“Stop being such a baby and hold still.”

Ford tightens the gauze around Stanley’s hand, tugging and pulling and letting Stan squirm because earlier he had no problem smashing his broken hand into someone’s face. He eases off when he’s satisfied with his work, and Stanley whimpers and clutches his hand, clearly trying to solicit some kind of sympathy. 

“You’re too old for this,” Ford frowns. He doesn’t mean the man-baby thing, though that’s partially the case. “You can’t keep hurting yourself because you can’t control your temper.” 

Stanley drops the act and kicks his feet up against a nearby desk. “I’m not too old for nothin’.” 

“I beg to differ. It was fine when you were a dumb teenager and I could bandage your hand or fix your bloody noses on the sly, but you can’t have a bad back, sore knees, and a broken hand when you’re pushing 70. If you keep breaking things pretty soon I won’t be able to fix them.”

Stanley’s face contorts. He slowly glances down at his hand, then very quickly twists away to face the window. Judging solely by the level of discomfort present in Stanley’s body language, Ford guesses that they touched on yet another memory that had been lost. 

He’s been watching him deteriorate for days now, agonizing at the slow descent and his inability to stop it. He’s powerless now; none of his prior methods seem to be helping Stanley. Even worse for Ford, there’d been a glimmer of hope just a few short days ago, a little light cutting through the fog in Stanley’s mind. 

It embarrasses him to think back on it now. Apropos of nothing one morning Stanley had referenced Space Journeys, their favorite tv show as teens. It was some snide comment about a sweater Ford had bought while in town - it looked similar to the uniform wore by ace starship captain Timmy Dirk - and Stanley had found that very amusing. Ford knew his own overeagerness to believe that some kind of breakthrough was imminent was his downfall; he’d let himself believe that the memory was the beginning of something more substantial. 

Later that day Stanley randomly recalled that he used to climb on to the roof of their childhood home to drink the beers he stole from their father. The memory had made no mention of Ford, but still he took it as a positive sign. And then, as if all those little memories weren’t enough, as he was bandaging Stanley’s hand for the first time his brother smiled teasingly and called him Sixer. Recovery was surely on the horizon! Not to mention it just made him happy as hell to hear the childhood nickname again. He’d grinned from ear-to-ear at Stanley, and soon after that they were both reaching out to grab the other in a kiss. 

It wasn’t like the other kiss at all. Ford had moaned as he tugged Stanley forward, his fist digging into the front of his shirt as his mouth met rough, chapped lips and chin touched stubbled chin. He felt Stanley respond with tongue and teeth, good hand reaching up to grab a handful of his hair, kissing hard and fast and desperately. Ford thought his head might spin right off his shoulders, grunting as Stan kissed him right out of his seat and on to his lap. When they finally broke they both began to laugh, harder and harder until they were wheezing and coughing. 

But Stanley hadn’t gotten his memories back, not in the least. As soon as Ford lifted his head and tried to reaffirm the memory gain there’d been an awkwardly painful and telling pause. Stanley admitted that the memories and the nicknames had been floating about in his head, but he didn’t know the full meaning behind anything. Ford could have been punched in the gut and it would have felt the same. 

They spent the rest of that night in silence, but Ford is determined this time to try to pull Stanley’s memories back. 

“Hey, what is it this time?” he asks, touching his hand to Stanley’s shoulder. “The teenager thing? You remember getting into fights, don’t you?”

Stan scans Ford’s fingers, and Ford pauses and quickly draws it away. “Yeah,” Stanley answers roughly. “It’s...that other stuff.” His eyes squint, brow furrows. He brings his good hand up to his head to rub at his temple, as if that will somehow help. “I remember getting into fights.”

But not after the fights, Ford thinks, when Stanley would limp home and crawl up the side alley drainpipe so he wouldn’t have to go through the front door and face his mother’s disappointed stare. Stanley doesn’t remember that Ford was always there to haul him up through the window, always there to wash and dab alcohol on the cuts. Sometimes he’d lecture him, just like he had moments earlier, but sometimes he would just settle for glowering in his general direction as Stanley begged him to lie to their parents for him. Ford always gave into him though, always.

“So what’s in your mind instead?” he asks calmly, pushing the hurt deep, deep down, crushing it into a little ball with the density of a dying star. 

“Nothing.” Stanley shakes his head, hand reaching out to toy with the loose end of the bandage. It’s swollen to all hell; Ford’s surprised he’s not asking for industrial-sized painkillers at this point. “Blankness. Everything in my head just kind of blurs together. I see the fights but then I don’t remember what comes after that.”

Ford sits back against the bed with a disappointed frown. Right, well, maybe a more specific memory will fare better. “Do you remember when our father took us for boxing lessons?” He’s surprised when his brother’s face falls yet again. “Do you...Stanley, do not remember our parents?” 

Stanley rises to his feet defensively. “No, no,” he grunts, grasping his wrist and pacing the room, “I...sure, I remember them. Who forgets their own parents? That’s…” 

When he finally pauses to glance at Ford he quickly changes his tune - must have been the look of disbelief on his face. He isn’t exactly trying to hide it at the moment. “Okay, fine, smart guy.” Stanley sits himself on the bed next to Ford, brow creasing with worry. He’s starting to fray bits of the bandaging over his knuckles. “I can’t remember what they looked like. I know I have parents - that’s kind of a given,” he chuckles nervously, “but if you asked me their names or what they did for a living…”

“Pawn shop and phone psychic,” Ford has to clarify a moment later, as Stan’s boring a hole into his skull with his eyeballs “And no, I'm not making it up. Our father ran a pawn shop, and our mother was a phone psychic.”

“Heh. Classy family.” 

“Do you remember where you - where we grew up? Our town, our house, anything?”

“Uuuh…I remember....hairspray. Lots of hairspray. And neon. And sandwiches.” 

It’s a resounding no for Ford. Sure, all those things were involved in their childhood, but none were specific enough to put his fears at ease. He’s a stranger to Stanley now, as are their parents. God, what he must think of their boat and their ‘adventures’ now?

Ford picks up the package addressed to Mabel and Dipper Pines, balancing it in his hands and then setting it gently down on the desk. “And the twins?” he whispers. 

“No,” Stanley answers easily, “No, I know who they are. We just wrote them a letter! Pains in the ass though.” He’s smiling fondly, seemingly completely unaware of his brother’s anguish. “Spent the whole summer with them, you know.” And Ford does know, all too well, but Stan has been repeating himself a lot lately. He eagerly continues on, “first time their parents let me take them too -- they keeping telling me they weren’t old enough to go, and their grandfather...their grandfather…” 

He trails off. Ford feels sick to his stomach. 

“Their grandfather?” Ford pushes, “what about our brother?” 

“He...wanted to spend time with them, so our plans fell through...our brother....my….what’s his name again?” 

Ford is aghast. That’s Shermie down too - practically their entire family now. The twins would be next, without a doubt. He sits back on on the bed and, instead of giving in to the looming emotional breakdown, begins to ponder his options, eyes glazing over as he avoids the curious stare of his brother who was still waiting for his answer. His mind is buzzing - what was the best thing for Stanley? Though he’s sure the trip didn’t cause the total malfunction of his ability to keep long-term memories, he assumes that being on a boat with a total stranger isn’t the most comfortable situation to find oneself in. So what then? 

“Hey, Stanford?” 

Ford tries his hand at a reassuring smile. He’s not sure it’s entirely successful. “Stanley?”

“I know….I know you’re worrying about me. I can see it in your face.” His hand is covered by Stanley’s bandaged one, and he’s offered a smile in return. “I want to remember. I’m trying.”

“Stanley…” He shakes his head and covered Stanley’s poor, swollen hand with his. He grasps it, even though it’s likely painful for him. Here his brother was, operating on a long-term memory that was seeping like a sponge, trying to cheer him up. It was just like when they were kids. “Stanley, don’t worry about me.” 

“Well,” Stanley scoffs, giving a good tug so that Ford falls forward, right into his arms, “that’s not gonna happen.”

It all catches Ford off guard. The concern, the embrace, the reassurance. His hands are splayed out, hovering over Stanley’s in an ungainly move to keep from just outright embracing him. “But I’m nothing to you. No one.” 

“Yeah, and?” Stanley laughs and Ford practically melts right into him. “You’re good to me, and I like you. I know enough about you that I can tell you like me too. I think that’s enough to justify some kind of emotional response, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes,” Ford stumbles. Stanley wraps his arms around him and gives up trying to resist it. His arms carefully fold around Stanley broad frame. “Isn’t it odd though? Being stuck on a tiny ship in the arctic with someone you don’t even know?” 

“Eh.” 

Stanley’s fingers gently begin carting their way through his hair. Ford sighs and drops his head onto his shoulder, eyes closing as he lets himself actually enjoy the touch. “Eh. Christ, Stanley, is that all you have to say?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Pretty much,” Ford repeats with an eye roll.“This is serious. What if your memories never return? What if one day you can’t remember the twins?” 

Ford does feel Stanley freeze up at that. So much for that easy-breezy nature of his. “You know…” he then begins to reply, “I don’t remember you at all, but I still like being around you. It’s like...I’ve known you all my life. And I guess I have, yeah, but it’s like I don’t have to try around you. I just know. Maybe, if it does happen, it’ll be the same with them. Maybe...it’s okay if I don’t remember. I’m still me, right?” 

Well said, but not reassuring. Ford sits up and moves himself out of Stanley’s embrace. He’s smiling though, because as fatalistic as the view was it was oddly positive. Stanley Pines was still Stanley Pines, swearing conman with a low brow sense of humor from New Jersey, a head full of memories or not. 

“You are certainly still you,” Ford replies. Trouble is, for how long will he be himself? How much of his brother was built on all those memories?

“Right!” Stanley slaps his knees and gets to his feet with soft cracking noise. “Oof. So, when are we gonna leave this dump? I’m bored as hell and there’s no one left to fleece.” 

“You mean, when are we going to get driven out by an angry mob? I imagine tomorrow morning.” 

“Let’s start packing then. We can beat them to the punch.”

It’s not the worst idea in the world. They’d already gotten their provisions and fixed the boat as best they could, so it wasn’t as though they were lingering for any reason in particular but to send the mail out. “Alright,” Ford agrees, “we’ll mail Dipper and Mabel’s letter and head out right after.”

Plan agreed upon, they gather their things in silence and settle in for the night. Stanley finds a Danish game show, which takes him all of five minutes to decipher before he’s cheering and booing and talking Ford’s uninterested ear off about strategy, while Ford’s pursuit remains scholarly as he attempts to read a book about mythical entrances to the afterlife. Occasionally he replies to his brother, but eventually Stanley quiets down and falls asleep mid-show.

The book, rather interesting as it is, keeps Stanford up long into the night. Loathed as he was to admit it, he hadn't given much thought to mythical portals into the underworld. In theory they could exist. Perhaps legendary portals to ‘the underworld’ had some basis in inter-dimensional travel. He ponders this for a while and scribbles notes into his journal before falling asleep himself, journal precariously balanced on his chest. 

The morning sun doesn’t rise in Ittoqqortoormiit like it does in pockets of humanity below the Arctic Circle, and without the sunlight Ford sleeps longer than he means to. He’s woken only when he feels the hand to his chest, and it triggers something within him that he’d been careful to hide since returning to his own dimension. With a cry he jolts up and reels back his fist, but the punch is deftly caught by his brother’s strong hand. 

“Hey,” Stanley blinks in surprise. “Good morning.”

Ford immediately switches gears from some sort of wild-eyed berserker to apologetic and genuinely embarrassed as all hell. He pulls back his hand and clears his throat, trying an attempt an apology before Stanley brushes him right off. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Woke up too many times in a sketchy-looking alley too, huh?” he grins, and Ford blushes. 

“I guess you could say that.” There was a kind of parallel there, and Ford really doesn't feel like reminding him that he was trapped in different dimension for 30 years. 

The flow of adrenaline through his body begins to slow. He’s himself again soon enough, and as he reaches for his glasses he spies his journal in Stanley’s hand. He’s fairly certain his blood has now gone cold. “What are you doing with that?” 

“This? I was just…it fell when you were sleeping, so I picked it up. I was trying to wake you, honest…”

But there’s more to it than that; Stanley is definitely keeping something from him, he can tell in his mannerism. Ford tries to play it cool, even though his heart is hammering away in his chest. “Did you read any of it?” 

“Not on purpose!” he stammers, and Ford tries not to curse. If he saw the notes he’d been keeping on him…. “I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just a bunch of nerd stuff.” 

Stanley sits himself down next to him and Ford snatches the book away. He has to stop himself from sighing in relief once it's safe in his hands. “Bunch of nerd stuff,” he repeats gruffly. Normal, normal, everything is normal. He didn’t just try to punch his brother or have a fit when his journal was taken away. 

“Your notes on portals,” Stanley explains, “too much math. The drawings are good though. You some kind of artist?” 

Ford snorts and opens up the journal to the page with his notes on gates to the underworld. “No, that’s just a hobby,” he tells him, idly scanning his notes and wondering if there was any substance there. His drawings were okay, but it pleases him to hear that Stanley thinks he’s talented. In fact, it calms him down a great deal. 

“You know...not that I was doing too much reading, not my style,” Stanley says. He’s trying very hard to make it all sound casual. It's incredibly suspicious. “But I saw something about Hades in there, and the rivers and all that junk.”

“It’s not junk,” Ford says flatly. 

“No, no, I didn’t mean _junk_ , I meant…” Stanley touches his ear nervously and laughs. “There’s some kind of river of forgetfulness?” 

Oh, now this is actually very interesting development. Ford nods softly, unsure of where Stanley’s headed with this train of thought. He decides to indulge it though. “Yes, Lethe. It’s one of rivers in the Greek Underworld. In Greek myth spirits of the dead would drink from the river to forget their past lives.”

“And there’s a pool that does the opposite thing, right?” Ford sees a bit of measured hope in his expression. 

“Um...in some legends, yes. Memory and omniscience. Mnemosyne, it’s called, after the Goddess of Memory.”

“Do you think…” Stanley’s having trouble spitting it out, and though Ford can so plainly see where this is headed, he allows him to try and continue without interrupting. “We’ve seen some stuff, you and I. Maybe this river and this pool really exist somewhere.”

Stanley cringes as soon as he finishes, as if expecting Ford to react poorly. It’s an interesting reaction, one that Ford might be tempted to study further if he wasn’t so astonished that Stanley had thought of the idea before he did. Being quick to investigate anything even slightly weird or odd is usually his modus operandi. “Maybe, maybe…” he says, nodding his head and reaching for his book from the night before. He opens it up and begins to flip through until he finds mention of the river and the pool of water. 

“Maybe, yeah?” Stanley asks, sounding just as surprised that Ford didn’t think the idea was stupid. He scoots closer to him. “I mean, what are the odds that it’ll exist and do what it claims to?” 

“We won’t know until we find it,” Ford replies, finding more mention of the pool and chuckling to himself as he begins to jot down notes directly onto the book. He feels a little giddy at the prospect. “If the anomaly tracker finds something out there, we can start sailing that way today.”

The more he reads and plans, the more he thinks to himself that it was all very promising. Ancient Greek and Roman myths of the underworld were based on actual geographical points. If they could find the historical river or cave then perhaps they might actually find something of substance. 

“Greece?”

“Greece!” Ford grins. “Or Italy, but the Mediterranean! Aren’t you tired of the cold, Stanley? Let’s go somewhere warm.” 

“You know,” Stanley nods, relieved and actually quite pleased with himself, “I wouldn’t mind spending some time on a beach. We could make a quick stop in Monaco too. Monte Carlo - now there’s a classy establishment.”

“Classiest place you’ll ever get thrown out of,” Ford teases. Stanley shoots him a glare but he keeps right on smirking and writing notes down in the book. 

“Hey, I can behave when I want to.”

Ford raises a brow. “Oh yeah? Care to place a wager?”

“Is that the same as making a bet?”

He grins and Ford shakes his head, using the pen to point at him. “I bet you won’t last one day in Monte Carlo before getting kicked out - or worse - thrown in prison.” 

Stanley scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest, but he’s clearly amused by the whole thing. “And if I do?”

“I’ll...stop trying to teach you things. For a week.”

“Pfft, you’ve gotta do better than that.”

“A month?”

“No, no. Something else. I can just turn down my hearing aid if I don’t wanna listen to you.”

“Oh. Hmn. Well, I suppose I could...clean the Stan O’ War for a week. Top to bottom, everything.” 

“You could go on a date with me.” 

Ford nearly flings the pen across the room in his surprise. “You could what?”

“A date, you and me,” Stanley reiterates. “If I don’t get thrown out of the Monte Carlo casino, then you have to go on a date with me.” 

“Stanley,” Ford replies, gripping the book hard. He shuts it forcefully and leans his head forward, deep lines of worry creasing his forehead and mouth. “Stanley, no.” 

“Oh, come on! Why not?” He grins and leans back on his hands, forgetting temporarily that one is injured until he yelps in pain. 

“You know why.” He can’t believe he has to have this talk with him. 

“But I obviously don’t care,” Stan retorts, now gripping his bandaged hand. 

“But you should-”

“But I don’t! Jesus, Ford. Clearly you want this as much as I do.” 

“Stanley,” he sighs. It’s the lack of memories, it’s screwing him up. “Stanley--”

“Don’t. Give me one good reason you won’t give me a chance, and don’t say the obvious thing. The obvious thing doesn’t matter,” Stan tells him, sounding about as forceful and as resolved as ever. “We’re old and no one gives a flying fuck what we do, so if you say that, I’ll...I’ll...I’ll punch you right in the neck. It’s stupid to keep dancing around it, Ford, so why do you keep doing it?” 

“Because, Stanley!” Ford shouts, just needing to be louder to shut him up for a second. He climbs to his feet and throws both the book and the journal down into his bag. He’s panting a little, agitated and frantic and unable to meet Stanley’s gaze. He doesn’t want to look at him and risk giving in. It’d be so, so easy to do just that. “I don’t want you to hate me!”

“Hate…you?” The thought has clearly not occurred to Stanley pines. “Why--”

“I don’t want you to get your memories back and hate me for this,” he whispers, wincing visibly. He hears Stanley get up for the bed, sees him reaching for him out of the corner of his eye, but his hand never makes contact. “So...leave it alone, dammit. Let’s just be what we are, so that when you do get your memories back we won’t have anything to regret.”

“But I might not regret it,” he hears him reply. It’s faint and distance, as though his head is encased in a bubble. 

“But you might, and that’d be the end of us. Forever. I know you don’t want that, not after everything. Just trust me on this, Stan.” 

He knows Stanley doesn’t understand. He knows that he can’t remember their falling out, the portal, the missteps between them and the bitter fights as teens and young men. Ford’s already accepted his portion of the blame, but he doesn’t want this on his shoulders if Stanley suddenly comes around again and can’t handle what his memory-less self had been up to. And it would be Ford to blame, for taking advantage, for not stopping it, and at the moment all he sees are the lonely lives they’d lead without each other in them. 

So he stops it all, for his sake, for Stanley’s sake. He’s determined to walk away from this, even if he wants it so intensely that his heart might be irreparably damaged when it’s all said and done. 

Stanford doesn’t look at Stanley as he gets ready for the day and grabs his things. He doesn't need to see his face to know he knows he’s still standing by the bed with that look in his eyes. Disappointed, sad, angry, confused - the whole gamut, probably. This, all of this, would only end in disaster.


	8. Monaco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience in between chapter updates!

As beautiful as everything is in the Arctic Circle - the ice floes, the still deep blue water, the craggy coasts, Northern Lights dancing above their heads in the sky - Stan finds he doesn’t miss it at all. How could he miss the bitter cold when he’s about to bask in the warm waters of the Mediterranean Sea? He feels the aches in his joints already starting to just disappear, floating far, far away from him on the back of a mild Mediterranean breeze. 

The wind, in fact, is providing the only bit of warmth to be had on the boat since Ford decided Stan couldn’t make decisions for himself. Sure, Stan’s been doing his best to make sure that things aren’t awkward between the two of them, because that’s the kind of guy he is. (Or at least, that’s the impression he gets about himself.) But as charming and as laid back as he tries to be, Ford hasn’t budged one single inch on this ‘silent, stoic researcher’ thing he’s doing. And of course, it’s absolutely infuriating to Stan. Every joke, every story, every attempt at a pleasantry is met by a half-hearted smile and a shrug. Ford’s the mopiest, most depressing person to be around, and worst of all there’s nowhere for Stan to go to get away from it. 

After a week and half of trying, Stan decides to keep to himself and just let Ford stew. No use being dragged down, not when they’re finally putting away the hats and gloves. Tropical drinks and white, silky-sand beaches are calling! It feels just like a new chapter of his life as they begin to sail past Portugal and Spain, the icy Atlantic slowly giving way to something much less harsh. They pass Cadiz and Tangier - though God, Stan’s so tempted to ask for a pit stop - up the eastern coast of Spain, watching the ancient, Roman-founded cities of Valencia and Barcelona pass them by. Eventually they begin sailing by France -- Sete, Montpellier, Marseille, and Cannes, gawking at the sunbathers and the grizzled fishermen as they stare right back out at them on their rinky little boats. 

They anchor for a brief rest in Lympia port, right by the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. Stan settles in for the afternoon with a beer, perching on the Stan O’ War’s railing like a big ol’ bird and watching the distant figures walk up and down the sunny beach. He’s there to watch for babes, but as the sun begins to go down the only people left are a pair of kids - two boys, maybe brothers, maybe not. They run up and down and up and down the beach, playing some kind of game they must have made up, stopping every now and again to look at something in the sand, and the longer Stan watches them the sadder he feels. 

Why. Why does it make him feel so sad? 

They sail into Monaco the next day, Stan taking the whole morning to dress in what he assumes are his finest clothes. He looks good - black pants, blue shirt tucked under a suit jacket, leather belt, the biggest, heaviest gold necklace he presumably owns - he couldn’t be any classier. Feeling a little frisky, he even leaves a couple buttons open to give some prospective partners a little sneak preview. Ladies, lock up your...selves, because Stan Pines is on the prowl. 

It seems stupid to dwell on what he can’t have. He was angry as all hell that Ford spurned him, but he thinks the European air must be mellowing him out. After all, Ford is allowed to refuse him, even if Stan thinks his reasons are a load of bunk. He just hopes that maybe Ford decides to join him for his night on the town instead of staying on the boat to pout -- they could both use a bit of adventure, but definitely Ford more so than him. 

Afterall, he’s fine! He’s super great. His head’s an empty walnut and he can’t look at most of his possessions without becoming frustrated, but when you’re sailing into the unknown none of that matters. He feels unattached and free, and if he can keep Ford from looking at him with those big, sad eyes of his then he can keep on believing everything is a-okay.

But Ford does look at him, raking his eyes up and down as Stan exits the cabin all dressed to the nines and smelling like cologne instead of the seas. His cheeks flush and Stan smirks; so much for all that pretend disinterest. He holds his tongue, even as Ford places his book aside and steps forward. 

“Are you going to the Grand Casino? You know they won’t let you in without a tie.”

He knows he’s not wearing a tie, but he looks down anyway. He sighs; so much for trying to lure in the ladies if he has to cover up that silver chest hair. 

“You’re also going to need a passport.”

Stan snorts and begins buttoning the top of his dress shirt. “I’ll use the one I used with the port authorities.”

“The obviously fake one?”

“Hey, it was good enough that I still got through.” 

Ford shakes his head. “They were distracted,” he tells him, almost sounding meek, which Stan had never heard before. “Most likely because of my hands. You’re used to them, but...people notice. They notice.”

Stan feels his mouth twitch its way into a frown. That Ford was maybe a little ashamed of his extra fingers is a new revelation for him. Thinking about someone that smart worrying because the dummies of the world might point and stare makes him more than a little furious. “Probably not,” he grunts, trying to shut those those thoughts as quickly as they’d popped up. “You throw the passports of a set of identical twins at a foreign border security agent and they’re gonna get a little flustered.” 

From his suit pocket he pulls out his passport. It’s his last forgery, and quite probably his best. There in the shiny print is his name: Stanley Kubrick Pines. It’s got a recent photo of him too; not doctored, no eye patch, no mustache, no birthmark. Just Stan Pines. It’s a good fake, even though everything on the passport was entirely true. He doesn’t remember why he doesn’t own a passport with his real name on it, but he knows he was a grifter. Somewhere along the way he must have just lost or destroyed or just not gotten the real documents. 

“This’ll be fine,” he says to himself, tucking the passport into his shirt again. He places his hands on his hips and whistles. “I just need a tie.” 

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t pack one,” Ford tells him, sitting back down with his book again. “I haven’t owned a tie since the porta…since the eighties.” 

Stan picks up on this self-correction, but he doesn’t delve. He has the facilities still to spot when Ford’s hesitating because of his memory loss, but it’s just not worth diving into anymore. “Well,” he says grandly, once again stepping right over the awkwardness, “I didn’t pack one either. Guess I’ll have to buy something along the way.”

“Or…” Ford murmurs, head tilting to the side. 

“Or....?”

Ford is on his feet once again, crossing in front of Stan and stepping back down into the cabin. He returns a few moments later with a long, faded-paisley printed scarf, Stan immediately backing up with his hands out in front of him. “Oh, no. I am not wearing an ascot. I’ll look like an idiot.” 

“What? Stanley...” Ford grabs for Stan’s arm and yanks him towards him. “Just trust me, I won’t make you look like an idiot.” He pauses. “Only you can do that.”

“And I do it so well!” 

They share a chuckle as Ford expertly loops the scarf under Stan’s collar and begins to tie it. Aside from those moments in the morning when they wake to realize they’ve been spooning in their sleep, it’s the closest they been since Greenland. Stan’s sure-as-hell aware of it, and he stares intently towards the sky in order to avoid looking into his brother’s face. Ford steps back after a few agonizing minutes of fiddling, hands folded over his chest and looking oh-so-pleased with himself. 

Stan glances down. It’s more on the fancy cravat side, which he only knows because of his secret Black and White Period Piece Old Lady Boring Movie Channel binges, but thankfully he looks more like the Count Lionel than Fred from Scooby Doo. It’s not bad, not bad at all. He could still schmooze in this get up. 

“Thanks,” he grins, smoothing down his lapel. 

“Fifty eight,” Ford replies.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Yeah, nothing. Stan nods and has a good look around. Since they’re actually docked Stan can just step right onto shore now that he’s finally ready. He hesitates though - it doesn’t look like Ford’s going to join him. 

“So….”

Ford’s picked up his book again, and he’s already got it flipped open and is back to looking disinterested. “So,” he replies, flipping a page pointedly. 

“I guess...I’ll see ya around?” 

He’s met with a shrug. “Guess so. Have fun. Stay out of jail.” 

The last comment sounds bitter to Stan’s ear, and it’s with that stab that he finally just leaves. He’s not his brother’s keeper.  
_________________________________

Ford’s original plan was to stay on the boat. Boozing and gambling isn’t exactly his cup of tea, not in this dimension anyway, and doesn’t particularly care to witness what kind of trouble his brother might get himself into. When Stanley leaves he starts to settle in for the night, uncorking a particularly nice bottle of whiskey he was saving for a special occasion. No use in saving it anymore, unless he counts his own resignation to a life of longing as a ‘special occasion’. 

He thinks about drinking right from the bottle, but he doesn’t think he’s hit bottom yet, and that’s definitely the sort of thing a person does when their life is careening out of control. Besides, bottom was somewhere far away from this moment, on a another planet in an alien jail cell. 

He stays inside the boat for twenty minutes drinking and reminiscing before restlessness takes over and he feels the need to roam. It’s pointless to stay inside while the whole world is right there in front of him, and feeling a little emboldened by the booze he starts to dress for a proper night out. Maybe he’ll just poke his head into the casino, just to say he’d been. It’s supposed to be magnificent, both inside and out, with its Belle Epoch facade and the large interior halls and stained glass windows. All of that is sure to be lost on Stanley, who thinks Las Vegas is the epitome of good taste. 

Ford continues to grumble to himself about his brother as he leaves the boat and starts the short walk to the Casino de Monte Carlo. Stanley Pines - head as blank as an empty bottle - wandering the Mediterranean Coast in search of adventure, hopelessly happy and cheerful while his brother wallows like a lovesick idiot. Ford has not pictured this for himself, though he tries to remind himself that he always was the thoughtful and brooding one, and that his current bout of melancholy is perfectly normal for deep-thinkers such as himself. The idea cheers him up immeasurably. 

The attendant at the door of the grand casino gives Ford’s passport some pause, glancing back and forth between him and the picture about half a dozen times before finally just handing it back over and waving him inside. He smirks as he pockets it; the deja vu that poor attendant must have been feeling, and Ford, feeling a little puckish, says nothing as he passes by the man and enters the Casino de Monte Carlo. 

It’s a gorgeous building. The floors alternate between plush carpeting and polished Italian marble, high-vaulted ceilings soar overhead, glass chandeliers and baroque paneling making the gambling rooms feel more like a world-class museum than a casino. Ford pauses underneath a glass dome and hanging chandelier and giggles; it’s so ridiculously opulent, there’s a statue of a general on a horse in the middle of an interior lobby. 

Some of Ford’s best memories during the years spent wandering were the times he could sit in busy part of an alien town and observe the locals. While the people around him aren’t locals by any stretch of the imagination, there’s still plenty to observe about them. He finds that their mannerisms, ones shaped by wealth and all the classism it pertains to, far more perplexing and odd than anything he’s seen in this world and worlds beyond. 

He finds a place to drink in a milky-white room and takes an empty seat at a fairly crowded, but yet still opulent bar. The bartender brings him some cucumber water with his order of scotch, an act that threatens to make the giggles come back, and he twists so he can watch the room while he sips his forty dollar drink. He still can’t tell the difference between ‘new money’ and ‘old money’; it all looks the same to a guy like him.

It’s in the midst of watching a ritzy couple arguing about his overbearing, gold-digging mother he feels a hand at the small of his back. He twitches and wheels around, glass still in hand in case he needs to smash it against his assailant’s head. Instead of an attacker he finds a middle aged man in a finely-tailored suit wobbling on his feet and smiling broadly his way. Though the threat is gone, Ford remains tense from the remaining adrenaline rush. 

“Hullo,” the man says. Posh, British accent. Ford smirks imperceptibly. It’s amusing to see someone so neatly put together in such apparent disarray. 

“Uh...yes. Hello.” He tries to spin back around, because clearly he’s been mistaken for the wrong person and this is probably the gentlest way to end the interaction. 

“Where are you going?” the man continues, siding right up to Ford and leaning on the bar. His martini spills a little; Ford watches the olive loll about in the glass. 

He’s an older man, probably his and Stanley’s age, but he has a youthful handsomeness that makes Ford stop and stare for a moment. He seems very much still dignified despite his current state; Ford can’t help but wonder what sort of money he comes from.

“Excuse me,” Ford manages, trying to inch away. The gentleman in the nice suit only moves closer. Ford can smell alcohol and expensive cologne on him; he clears his throat and tries again. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

The man laughs and Ford smiles awkwardly. “No, I don’t think I do. Still drinking the same thing? Let me buy you another.” 

Before Ford can interject he’s got his hand up, beckoning the all-too-attentive bartender over and asking for another round for ‘his friend here’. A second expense glass of booze is placed into his hand and the gentleman grins and sips his martini. 

Ford, ever-adaptable, nods politely and takes a sip. Free is free, he reasons, even if this is definitely a case of mistaken identity. Hopefully he can drink and run before he ever has to find out what this man’s agenda is.

They both sip in silence for a couple of beats, and then he sees the gentleman edge even closer. “You got away from me there,” he practically purrs. His hand reaches for Ford’s jacket sleeve and he plays with the fraying cuff. Ford shudders openly. “I almost thought you weren’t coming back.”

He laughs nervously and jerks his hand back. “I don’t think--”

“I’ve been thinking about you all night. I wanted to give you my room key,” the gentleman interrupts, completely unfazed by it all. “I’ve got a fully stocked bar and a jacuzzi….” 

“I’m not….” Ford is out of his seat at this point, trying desperately to move away. It’s not that the man isn’t handsome and dapper, it’s just that this whole thing is so very wrong. He’s hopelessly awkward and this isn’t at all what he wanted for his night. 

“I let you blow on my dice. I was thinking of other things you could b--”

“WHOOPS, SPILLED MY DRINK.” 

In an act of pure desperation Ford’s poured the entire contents of his glass down his own shirt, but it distracts the man just long enough to allow him to scurry back into the crowds. He jumps and dodges through the clouds of perfume and faux-fur until the small amount of panic in his chest subsides, which then leaves him feeling vaguely like a jelly-limbed idiot. 

He slinks out of the casino and back into the mild air of the Monaco port to catch his breath and decide whether or not he wants to think about whatever the hell just happened. He’d known right away who that man had been looking for - who else would Ford be mistaken for if not his own twin? But does he want to linger on the fact that Stanley had clearly been flirting with someone else, and not just someone else, but another man? 

The answer is, of course, hell no. 

Hell no, he does not want to think of Stanley going up to that man’s room for a night cap. He does not want to imagine the flirtation beforehand, the dice-blowing and the drink-buying and god knows what else. He does not want to dwell on the fact that he’d tied his handkerchief just-so for him, only for it to be ripped off by some upper class British gentleman who owns fifteen versions of the same expensive suit with matching pocket square.

Ford pushes his hands through his hair and lets out a frustrated growl. He desperately wants to be angry at Stanley and that dandified interloper, but he doesn’t think he can blame either of them. Stanley looks good right now - ruddy, saltspray cheeks, stubbled chin, silver hair curling its way down his neck - and with that suit and the alcohol flowing like water he knows that anyone’s ability to resist his brother’s charm would be significantly lowered. 

He heads back to the boat with a slow drag in his step, feeling equal parts angry and sorry for himself. The world seems particularly cruel tonight. He spies happy couples in the windows of charming French-style brasseries, drinking and canoodling and laughing, perfectly content with their lives and their relationships. He spies old friends strolling arm-in-arm through the cobbled streets of Monaco, and walks close to them to try and hear their shared stories. He yearns for that kind of belonging, and for some brief, fleeting moments in the Arctic with Stanley, he had it. 

It’s not supposed to be this way. He’s not supposed to feel lonelier in his own dimension, on a boat traveling his home planet with his brother. He’s not supposed to feel like the only human in an alien world again. 

He heads back to the Stan O’ War and crawls into bed, though he doesn’t sleep. Curled up in their bed, Ford stares at the watch on his wrist and waits. And he waits. And he waits. He finally nods off around three in the morning, and wakes once again when he hears a noise on the deck. He checks his watch; five am. The sun’s beginning to rise. 

Ford rolls onto his side and throws the blanket over his head. He doesn’t want to face Stanley knowing where he’s been and what he’s done. It feels like his whole body clenches when Stanley enters their bedroom; he can hear him slowly stripping off his clothes and then feel him sinking into the space next to him. 

“Ford?” he grunts. Stanley must have known he was awake, but Ford doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He lets out a fake snore and Stanley doesn’t respond. 

The morning comes and Ford sleeps right through it. He’s never been one to indulge in more sleep than what his body needed, but he doesn’t leave the bed until the early afternoon. As he trudges out of the bedroom and into the main area of the cabin, he notices that he can’t see the shoreline anymore. It takes him a moment before the implication strikes him. 

“S-Stanley?” 

Immediately all grogginess is gone. Ford wheels around and hurries out into the open air, still wearing what constitutes for pajamas in his world, a t-shirt and long pants. He scans the horizon for a moment and then lays eyes on Stanley, who is standing at the wheel looking downright chipper. 

“Stanley, when did we leave Monaco? Where are we going? You don’t have any of the maps out!” 

“Good morning to you too,” Stanley replies, still unflaggingly chipper. He begins to whistle and turns the wheel slightly, as if just to mock Ford and his Type A panicking. 

Ford responds with a scowl; Stanley outright laughs. God, he’s in an insufferably good mood, and Ford knows exactly why. 

“Relax, Sixer. We’re heading towards Italy. Should be seeing coast in a couple hours.”

“Italy.” It is the correct destination, and judging from the tin compass nailed to the side of the cabin they are headed in the right direction. He narrows his eyes and leans carefully against the rail. The seas are smooth today - he knows it’s not always the case for the Mediterranean. 

“Italy,” Stanley nods. “So relax. We’ll be swimming in olive oil and spaghetti in no time.” 

Ford wonders why Stanley had been so eager to leave, but lingering on that thought would only bring back those thoughts of loneliness and anger. He hits the button on his watch that brings up the anomaly tracker instead, observing the red dots that begin to pop by by the dozen. There are quite a few in the region they’re headed towards; perhaps one of them is the crater leading to the mythical underworld. This all needs more thought though, about the nature of the shared mythological elements of the Greek and Roman religions, the possibility of shared geographical anomalies, the likelihood of the second river, Mnemosyne, actually existing.

“You angry?” Stanley asks, rudely pulling Ford out of his own head. 

“Angry?” He heads back inside the cabin to get some much-needed coffee. “Why would I be angry?” he calls back through the open door. 

“I don’t know,” Stanley replies, “maybe because I left the port without checking your precious schedule?”

“Precious schedule?” Ford’s back on the neck, the steam of the coffee hitting his chin and nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means,” his brother grunts. “You hold to those maps like they’re the Bible or something. Don’t tell me you weren’t flipping out when you saw that I left the port.”

“That’s not…” 

“You don’t always have to be in control,” Stanley tells him. “Don’t you trust me?” 

Ford hesitates. It’s not what he was expecting to hear this morning, and he’s honestly not sure how to answer. Stanley sees this, he knows he does, and his expression begins to fall the longer Ford goes without answering. 

“You don’t, do you?” he whispers. He frowns, holding on to the wheel as he takes a step back. “It’s because of my memory, isn’t it? Ford…” 

“No, no, it’s not that at all--”

“Ford, cut the shit,” Stanley hisses. “I’m sick of you coddling me. I can make my own damn decisions!” 

“Oh, oh, that much is _clear_ , Stanley.” 

Stanley’s eyes narrow, and it takes a moment for Ford to realize what he’s just said. Maybe there’s a little more behind it than what he intended. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means….well….it’s….” Oh, to hell with it. “You do whatever you want and I don’t say a thing. You went out last night and had yourself a grand time, and where was I? Here. I didn’t stand in your way, so stop acting like I’m spending all of my waking hours concerned with what you do!” 

“Hey!” Stanley bellows. He actually leaves the wheel to jam his finger into Ford’s chest. “You don’t get to be like that. You don’t get to let me go and then shove it back in my face.” 

“Well you don’t have to rub it in!” Ford yells, grabbing his hand and pushing him away. Stanley stands firm though, and grips Ford’s fingers and reels him back in. “You don’t have to make me feel like….like…” 

“Like what? What right do you have to be so possessive and controlling, huh? _You_ rejected _me_ , remember?” 

The grip on his fingers tighten. Ford knows all he has to do is pull back and take a swing and he’d be free of him, but his hackles aren’t raised like they should be. He doesn’t want to hurt Stanley; frankly, he's tired of it. 

“I don’t,” he finally admits, and he lets his hand drop. Stanley doesn’t do the same. “I don’t. I pretend like I’m in control, and I try, but when it comes to you, Stanley? I’ve never had control. You’ve always been this outside variable; I’ve never been able to predict what you’re going to do or how you’re going to affect me. When it comes to you...I’m so helpless…” 

The hold on him doesn’t abate, which allows Stanley to step right up to him, staring him down and making Ford feel like he’s a full foot shorter. “I’m so helpless,” he repeats, glancing away. “Why, Stanley? We’ve been dimensions apart before and even then you were still upending my whole damn world. Why do I let you do this to me?” 

He’s not sure if he feels any better having admitted that. He lets out a nervous exhale and attempts once more to step away. “Stanley, let me go,” he whispers. 

Stanley does the opposite. “No,” he murmurs, taking his hand back. He ghosts his fingers along Ford’s cheek and leans down to touch their foreheads together. “No, never. Don’t you get it, Ford? I’m still here, dammit, I’m still here.”

Ford leans into him, eyes closing as he finally gives in and wraps Stanley in an embrace. He hears him whispering, over and over, “I’m still here, promise,” and holds him even tighter in response. 

Eventually they part, Ford going over to take the wheel while Stanley goes into the cabin for a little while. Ford doesn’t know who Stanley was appealing to with those desperate-sounding whispers, but he wants to believe it’s all true. 

But if Stanley isn’t here anymore, and isn’t coming back, what point was there in lingering too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Kubrick Pines is named for paternal grandmother, Oma Pines, née Kubrick. So naturally, Ford would then carry his mother’s maiden name, Tucci. 
> 
> Geeeeeet it? 
> 
> Anything for a Stan(ley) Tucci joke.


	9. Roman Holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone for reading and being patient with my sporadic updates! We're racing to the finish line with this fic, and I'm so happy that so many people have enjoyed it. 
> 
> A very special thanks goes out to my beta, wannabeagrunklefan (on the tumblrs). Thank you, my friend!

After Monaco things don’t get any better. Ford buries himself in research, quite literally hiding behind piles of books in the kitchen, furiously scribbling away in his journal until well into the wee hours of the night. His mind is abuzz, his thoughts so energetic that instead of letting them burst straight from his body he paces the decks and the small interior of the cabin, murmuring to himself and gesturing wildly into the air. His appearance is that of a hound dog on the trail of a rabbit, his energy seemingly endless. And Stanley...well, Stanley takes up whittling. 

It’s a pretty good hobby for being old-timey and slightly pioneery. There’s a knife involved, and a stick, and he gets to whistle and look outdoorsy. So far he’s only made sharpened sticks, but he figures that he’ll hone his skills in time. It’s not like there’s anything else to do, not since Ford took over the kitchen with his research. 

Stan realizes he’ll probably never get to see Italy again if he doesn’t take advantage of the trip now. He means the real Italy, the version with the ancient ruins and the real olive oil, not the New Jersey Italy-lite one. He wants to experience things - meet the people, see the sights, eat the food, lie on the beaches and let the sun bake him into a nice, golden brown. Ford’s got other ideas, worry-driven expedience disguised as curiosity. He thinks Stan’s broken, so what can he do but throw his weight behind a solution? 

At least Stan’s convinced Ford to let them stop in Rome for a spell. Cuma’s just down the coast, and once Stan has his fill of good wine and good food then he’ll happily head down to the ancient town and see what this anomaly is all about. He’s promised Ford that much anyway, which apparently has kept the peace aboard the Stan O’ War. 

Stan O’ War. He wonders why a guy like Ford would ever agree to a dumb name like that.

He peels back another layer of the stick with his knife, the wood curling and floating away on the sea breeze. Another reason he enjoys whittling - it helps him parse through his thoughts. He slides the knife cleanly over the pulp and - _sssssshllt_ \- the layer of wood curls away. He rolls the carved stick between his fingers and sighs gruffly.

Ever since that morning outside Monaco there’s been nothing between him and Ford. They don’t even share the same bed anymore thanks to Ford’s erratic sleep schedule. There’s no shared smiles anymore, no pleasantries, just the occasional grunt of acknowledgment as the other walks by. Stan knows he’s just being a stubborn ass about the multiple rejections, but Ford? Ford’s apparently collapsed in on himself like a dying star. 

Will he even leave the boat to come to Rome with him? Will he stay buried up to his eyeballs in papers instead? Will he calm down once they get to Cuma? These are the questions. He closes the knife and takes his foot off the wheel, standing up to properly steer it instead. They were getting close to the mouth of the Tiber, where they’d find a marina, dock, and take some kind of train into the city to spend the day sipping espresso in the sun. 

Stan smiles happily to himself, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing-yell. “Wheeeeeeeeeeen the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore! When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine -- that's amoreeeeee! Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling…”

“What’s that racket?” 

Ford has shoved his ruffled head out of the cabin, blinking blearily Stan’s way with bloodshot eyes. He looks too far gone to be annoyed, though Stan surmises that’s what he’s going for with that half-hearted glare of his. 

“It’s Deano, baby!” He smirks. “I could sing _Volare_ instead if that works for you.” 

Ford groans and ducks back inside. He says something, but it’s not English. Stan doesn’t even think it’s a human language; it’s guttural and weird to his ears.

“ _Volare_ it is, Sixer! Rome, baby!”

Much to Stan’s surprise, Ford decides that he does want to join him on his short trip into the city. He even manages a smile as they step off the Stan O’ War to start their journey on land, though on his sunken face it looks a little alarming - like he’s plotting to stab someone. Ford is trying though, so Stan keeps his smart ass remarks to himself and just enjoys the experience. Ford and Stan, Roman Holiday! He was obviously Gregory Peck. Ford was Audrey Hepburn...or maybe Eddie Albert. 

As they approach the center of the sprawling city, Stan pokes his head out the window of the taxi and lets out a low whistle. It’s loud and busy and so, so old; it was exactly like he’d imagined. He glances towards Ford, but his brother is staring hard off into the distance, dazed and definitely not focused on anything in particular. 

Stan’s chest feels heavy at the sight. “Hey,” he murmurs, nudging him with his elbow. Ford’s head bobs, neck like a wet noodle. “Do you want to see...that old thing? The big...stadium...thing…you know, with the lions and the gladiators...”

“The Colosseum?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, let’s go see the Colosseum. That’s right up your alley. Right?” He nudges him in the chest again when he doesn’t get an immediate response. Ford makes a soft noise, but when he raises his head there’s a quiet little smile on his face. 

“Right. It is. Glad you...remembered….” He trails off but Stan grabs him around the shoulder before he has the chance to look sad again. 

“Course I remembered! Let’s keep driving though. I think I’m still wobbling around from spending so much time on that boat.” 

There’s no complaint from Ford, so Stan tells the driver their destination and they speed away. He almost gets a little sick from the constant weaving the car does in and out of traffic, and he’s a little too eager to jump out and plant his feet on solid land again. Ford slinks out after him, but Stan thinks he sees him perk up when he spies the Roman ruins up close. Stan lets his brother pay the fare and begins to wander off to take a closer look himself. He figures he might as well try and see the appeal of this thing for himself. 

Stan loses Ford almost immediately. He’s gone by the time Stan circles back to the taxi loading area with the hard-won, senior-discounted tickets, and he frowns deeply as he scans the area for his brother. He doesn’t panic when Ford doesn’t surface right away though, as Ford is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Instead of going inside the ruins, he wanders down to the nearby plaza to see what kind of tacky crap the local pushcarts are selling. 

Some of the stuff is god-awful, but he’s oddly charmed by the pocket-sized Colosseums. He pays for a t-shirt for Ford and swipes a pocket-Colosseum for himself, whistling as he casually wanders away from the scene of the crime. He thinks he hears someone shouting something at him, probably the old woman running the pushcart, poor old bat, but he turns down his hearing aid and continues along his merry way. She couldn’t prove anything. 

Stan gets about halfway to the Colosseum entrance when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Oh shit, the polizia. Il fuzz...io. He plays it cool for a couple of seconds, thinking that there was still the chance that someone else had done something worse than him. What was a little theft, really? 

The polizia continue to follow him, and then they call out for him to hold up. In English. He can’t even play ignorant now; he’s been caught. Naturally the right and moral thing to do in a situation like this is to give back the stolen trinket and apologize before he causes an international incident, but Stan’s more immediate inclination is to throw a smoke bomb and run. So he does the second thing, knocking through a young couple trying to take a picture of themselves on their tiny phone and making a mad dash for a crowd to try and lose the police. 

He can’t see the polizia once he’s in the crowd of tourists, but he knows they’re still after him. Trying to make an escape in a foreign country is usually trickier than the usual domestic fleeing, but he still doesn’t know where Ford has gone. He can’t make a break for it and leave his brother behind. Dirty rotten criminal or not, he didn’t do that to family. 

He zigs and zags through the crowds and around the edge of the Colosseum, but the polizia remain hot on his tail. There’s a certain point in the midst of a chase like this that Stanley begins to rethink his life choices, particularly the bad choices made in his golden years. But it’s not like he can go back in time and un-steal that souvenier. Huffing and puffing, he rounds a corner and nearly runs smack dab into his brother, who appears...worse. Way worse. His clothes are tattered and it looks like he walked into a door. 

“Stanley!” his brother exclaims. Stan grabs him by the arm and whips him around, practically dragging him into a run. 

“No time, no time, gotta go!”

“What the...” Ford looks over his shoulder and makes a noise of exasperation. “What the hell did you do, Stanley?”

“Pocket Colosseum! So...cute...needed…it…” he wheezes. 

Ford makes another noise, the same guttural-sounding language as before. No time to ask where all of this is coming from though, the polizia are starting to catch up to them. “I’ve got an idea, Stanley, come on.” 

Ford’s idea surprises Stanley because instead of hopping on a tram or jumping into a taxi like he expected, his brother goes ahead and steals a damn parked vespa. “Uh...this is worse,” Stan tells him, Ford pushing a helmet onto his head and yanking his brother down onto the seat behind him. “Yeah, Ford? This is _way_ worse than stealing some crap from a staaaah!”

They practically peel out from the sidewalk, the unfortunate scooter-owner running out from the cafe with a sandwich still in hand. He yells after them and Stanley turns to watch the polizia catch up, all three men yelling after them in frustration and anger. 

“Sorry! It’s an emergency!” Ford yells back, laughing loudly and with sheer glee. “We’ll give it back!” Stan decides to be impressed by his brother’s criminal streak at a later point in time, as at the moment he’s certain that death is upon them both. The way Ford whips the little scooter in and out of the cars is just like a local - moving in and out of cars and trucks and even trams with little regard for his safety or anyone else’s. 

A scooter ahead of them bumps into a car and Ford speeds up even faster, jetting around the mess and back up on the sidewalk. “Jesus Christ, Ford,” Stan yelps, head being hit by the purses of some indignant pedestrians. “Where’d you learn to drive?”

“Quadrant Six of Epsilon-- HEY!” He honks the little horn of the vespa as a little old lady crosses in front of him. She swears and makes what Stan guesses is an obscene gesture their way. Ford waits about two more seconds, then cuts around her with the scooter and pulls them back on the road. 

When they get out of the historic center of the city Ford finally slows down enough for conversation. “So,” Stan mutters, squeezing him tightly around his waist as they dip around a corner, “what the hell was all that?”

“I didn’t want to deal with the local police today, Stanley,” Ford replies. 

For a second Stanley actually feels like he’s being scolded, but then he sputters in indignation. “Hey! No, no, you’ve got us both in way more trouble than I did. I just stole some stupid little trinket.” 

And that is when Stanley looks down. His brother is holding the handlebar of the scooter so tightly that his knuckles are white, and blood has trickled its way down his hands and dried in streaks. He pulls back and looks him over with a little more clarity -- tattered clothes and blood. He’d been in some kind of fight. “God, Ford, what the hell happened to you?” 

Ford lets out a dark little chuckle. “I found an anomaly while you were off shopping.”

It’s later at the Spanish Steps, long after they’ve abandoned the scooter and hiked it back to the city center, that Ford goes into greater detail regarding the anomaly. Stan had insisted on getting him cleaned up first - and gelato, he insisted on _lots_ of gelato - and thankfully Ford agreed to both. 

“What? Like in one of those monster movies from the 1950s?”

Ford nods softly. He’s using the gelato like a shield, holding it in front of his mouth as he carefully replies to Stan’s questions about the “incident”. He doesn’t seem all that shocked that he was torn to bits on what would otherwise be called a routine jaunt around town, but between frozen ghouls and giant narwhals Stan guesses he wouldn’t be so surprised either.

“How can you be sure?” 

“He attacked me.”

“He could have been drunk. And really hairy.” Stan takes a bite from his own serving of gelato and then waves the tiny spoon around. It makes him feel like a giant. “Besides, don’t werewolves have to change into a wolf first before they attack? Isn’t that Werewolves 101?”

“Doesn’t always work that way,” Ford replies dryly. He looks down at his bandaged hand and then back up at Stan. “Clearly.”

Stan snorts. “Sure, because of the two of us _I’m_ the werewolf expert.”

Ford gives him a little smirk. His eyes drift down towards the plaza and the busy thrum of life moving about at their feet, but his gaze doesn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. “You used to be. _Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man_ was your favorite movie when you were eight.” 

Stan obviously doesn’t remember this, but the warmth in Ford’s voice is too much to resist. He’ll take ignoring a problem over dwelling on the painful truth any day. “That was a long time ago,” he reminds him. “Besides, those movies weren’t exactly meant to be true-to-life, you know what I mean?” 

“True. No hard science there. Looking back on it now, the Wolf Man in that movie wasn’t so much a monster than a walking-talking, shag carpet.” 

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs. He tries to chuckle, an attempt to downplay the concern that was still there. “So...uh...does that mean you’re going to turn into a werewolf too?” 

“No,” Ford reassures him, “you have to be bit when they’re still in wolf-form. I’m just scratched and bruised, nothing major.” 

“Just a little bloody, nothing major,” Stan mimics, doing a spot-on impression of Ford. It actually makes the man beside him stop and stare, and Stan shifts uncomfortably under the intense gaze. “Uh...so…” he continues, inching away until Ford decides to finally look somewhere else. “Why’d he attack you in the first place?”

“Oh, because I was following him.” Ford’s demeanor changes in an instant. He’s talking about the anomaly now; he’s in his element. He raises his wrist and points to the anomaly tracker. “I spotted him on this when we left the taxi. Poor guy. I feel bad for him. He’s just some tourist from the countryside. He’d separated from his tour group and I must have startled him.”

“Shouldn’t you be more worried? I mean...the guy’s a werewolf, he’s already attacked someone, and now he’s roaming freely around the big city. That’s a public health hazard.” 

“Not any more than pollution or work-related stress,” Ford counters. 

“Nreh. Got an answer for everything, don’tcha?”

“Yes,” Ford smirks. Stan snorts in the mildest amusement and turns his attention towards the crowd below. Ford continues, “We don’t have anything to worry about. He seemed horrified when all was said and done. I don’t think he’s going to prowl the streets for prey.

“Besides,” Ford adds, “he’s probably not the only werewolf in town, and Rome’s been getting along fine without our intervention for thousands of years.”

Stan doesn’t believe him, but he also doesn’t relish the thought of chasing down monsters at the moment. Frankly he’s worn out from the chase earlier that morning.

Conversation complete, he can focus fully on the tourists and locals surrounding them. He quickly realizes that they are, by far, the oldest people currently sitting on the stairs. Teenagers and young adults canoodle with plastic cups of wine or ice cream, giggling and kissing and holding hands. Groups of friends crowd around the small stoop, laughing far too long or far too loud for Stan’s comfort. He spies a young man strumming a guitar, singing to his starry-eyed girlfriend, and he averts his eyes with a grumble. It’s a sickening sight to behold for an old fogey like himself. 

“Why’d you choose this place if the couples were going to annoy you?”

Stan continues to look forward. “I heard it was supposed to be nice.” Romantic, as a matter of fact, but that wasn't why he’d brought Ford here. “Doesn't matter. Want to walk around?”

Ford shrugs and Stan climbs to his feet, holding a hand out for Ford to take. He hauls him up and holds his hand as they walk down the stairs, letting go when he remembers himself. 

“Stanley. Can I ask you a question?” 

Oh lord, here it comes. “I dunno, can you?”

Ford, bless him, barrels on like he hadn't heard him. “In Monaco, did you…?”

Stan hardly gives him a second look. He wants to get away from the plaza and the crowds of amateur photographers, so he ducks his brother and the question and heads down the cobblestone street. Ford follows, hands in his coat pockets as he trails behind his brother.

He hears the Trevi Fountain is nearby, and he kind of wants to see how accessible the change sitting in the basin is for his grabby hands. 

“Stan,” Ford says, a soft sigh in his voice.

“If you’re going to ask me that question again, you might as well stop talking right now.”

Because the answer is one part none of his business, and two parts it didn't really matter. It’d just been a bit of fun, and he’d left whatever it was back in Monaco.

“Are we going to the Trevi Fountain?” Ford eventually mumbles, having finally caught up to Stan’s line of thinking. “I didn't think you’d be interested in seeing something like that.”

“I'm not one for doing tourist stuff, if that’s what you mean.” Never had been, even though he apparently ran a damn tourist trap for thirty years. “But we’re here, and we won't ever be back, so why not?”

And wasn’t that kind of a sad thought -- they’d never be back again. Old age, Stan reminds himself, is an unyielding son of a bitch. 

They approach the Trevi Fountain in a shared silence, letting the combined conversation of the tourists fill the air around them. It’s a warm night, and busy in the kind of way that a city tends to be on a weekend. Stan shoves his hands into his pockets to smother the urge to pick a pocket or two as they pass oblivious couples attempting to take their pictures in front of the fountain. There’s no real need for it, after all. He wants for so little now. 

The fountain is impressive in the kind of way that the Monte Carlo was, in that it’s big, baroque, and just about everyone wants to crowd around it. Stan stays back and Ford does the same, the two men just standing side-by-side, staring as they watch the people come and go. 

“Don’t tell me -- you’re casing the joint, aren’t you?” Ford remarks gently. It’s a joke, and Stan responds with a low laugh. 

“Yeah, I am. I need you to create a distraction,” he teases. “Rappel the side of a building or shoot that laserbeam gun into the air or something.” 

Ford echoes the chuckle. “You know…” His hand is on his chin, gazing thoughtfully at the fountain. All Stan can do is stare. “Legend says you should throw three coins over your shoulder, right hand over your left shoulder.”

Stan raises his brow. “Oh yeah? Who am I to argue against legend?” He roots around in his pocket and produces a handful of junk. “You have to spare the coin though, Sixer. I’m tapped out.” 

He grabs Ford by the arm, gently this time, and leads him through the crowd until they’re able to find a spot by the edge of the fountain. The wind shifts and a light spray hits the throng of people, sending a good portion shrieking and giggling back to a safer distance. Stan stays put, enjoying the mist in his face until Ford beckons him to turn around. 

Stan does so, albeit awkwardly, and watches a braver group turn and start to throw their coins over their shoulders. “Like that, huh?” he grunts, Ford nodding as he holds out his palm to him. There are coins in his hand, and Stan carefully picks through for the smaller denominations. 

It’s dopey, the whole coin-in-fountain superstition thing, but as he locks eyes with Ford and is given an encouraging smile he suddenly feels a hell of a lot less silly for standing there like he is. He tosses the first in, waiting for the telltale sound of the coin hitting the water. Ford smiles and Stan throws the other two in next, one after the other, listening for the splash and then dusting his hands off. 

“So,” he says, turning back around to peer into the basin. Lots and lots of euros down there. Tempting, but he straightens himself out and clears his throat. “Why’d I throw away money, Ford?”

Their fellow tourists are closing in, so Ford and Stan begin to move away. Their spot is quickly enveloped with a gaggle of teenage girls. “The first coin you threw guarantees your return to Rome,” Ford explains. “So much for thinking you’d never be back.”

“Uh huh,” Stan hums, hands back in his pockets. Just like Ford, to trick him into undermining his own previous declaration. “What about the second and the third?” 

“The second will ensure a new romance,” he replies. Stan sees that he’s started to go pink around the ears. “And the third will ensure marriage.”

Now he gets it. Ford’s played a little prank on him, so Stan begins to laugh. He can be a good sport about these kinds of things; he’s not even the least bit bitter. “Good one, Sixer,” he wheezes, punching him in the arm. “That explains why all those teenagers were clawing over us to get to the fountain.” 

“Yes, well, it isn’t _just_ for teenagers. I saw plenty of other people--” 

“Well, I guess getting one outta three would be good.”

“I… _what_?” 

Stan quickly steps out in front of Ford, laughing loudly to himself. “One outta three, Sixer! One outta three.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Stan is not at all athletic, but he’s paces ahead of Ford at this point. He glances over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “One day, Ford, I’ll get one out of the three. Guess which one!” He barks out a laugh, the echo bouncing off high, Italian walls and jumping right back at him. 

“Which one…” 

He hears his brother continue ponder his question out loud, and he smirks and shakes his head. That’s for making him waste money.  
_________________________________

Even as they sail away from Rome, Ford continues to ponder what Stanley meant by “one out of three”. He knows that he was taking delight in his confusion - of course he knows that - but a part of him, buried deep, deep down now, thinks of the statement as a puzzle to solve. 

And as intriguing a puzzle as it is, it does not give him hope. Hope cannot exist in a world where Stanley Pines doesn’t remember Mabel and Dipper. Hope has no place in his life if Stanley’s whole life is blank and empty, if emotions and actions lack memory. 

The list of what Stanley knows is being shortened each and every day. Gravity Falls, the Shack, the Portal, their fight -- all of it, gone. His personality remains, general knowledge and things gleaned from day-to-day interactions, like his nickname or even the fact that they’re brothers in the first place. It’s not much though, and Ford doesn’t know how long any of this will stick around once some core aspects about himself disappear. 

There’s no reminding Stanley this time of the things he forgot. Prompting doesn’t work anymore, nor does outright telling him. Whereas before his frustration with himself would be apparent when he failed to remember something, now he barely gives it a passing thought. Once the twins were gone from his mind the pictures in the cabin were like stock photos, Stanley glazing over them as he moved about the ship. Ford had to hide them, if only because the sight was too sad for words. 

He curses Bill when he’s alone. He knows he can’t hear him, but letting out a stream of curses-some of them not in any human language-relieves some of the pain and stress. He also writes long letters to Stanley, or rather, to the man who used to be Stanley. The person he loved, who no longer exists. 

Which leads Ford back to the riddle. One of three, which does Stanley mean? Will he return to Rome, find romance, or marry? Which does he believe will happen? More to the point, what part of the man that’s still there believes one of the three will happen? 

Romance, he concludes one morning. Stanley’s talking about romance, and more specifically, the kind of romantic fling he had in Monaco. That’s the most logical answer. His brother’s not really one for dreaming about settling down, and he probably doesn’t care all that much about returning to Rome. No, it’s romance. Another imminent romance fling. 

The thought alone keeps Ford sulking throughout the entire day. Fortunately the City of Pozzuoli is not far- and in turn Cuma-though nearing their destination brings him no peace. There’s too much to prepare for, too much that could go wrong. He spends his morning switching his reasons for pouting, between the worry of what lies ahead in Cuma and annoyance at Stanley’s amorous side, and for everyone’s sake just avoids his brother altogether. 

Not that Stanley even seems to notice; he’s back at his whittling and humming, a moonstruck expression drifting across his grizzled face. On the one occasion that he does pick his head up from his research, hand cramping from the near constant stream of writing, Ford spies his brother looking into the cabin. He’s curious -- is he watching him? It’s confirmed when Stanley meets his eye and quickly turns away. 

In the evening the two finally meet inside the boat’s cabin. The Stan O’ War rocks away in the gentle waves, Stanley having docked it for the night at the port of Pozzuoli. They sit across from each other, Ford still surrounded by his books and notes while he eats a meal of reheated leftovers from the day before. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to the lake,” he informs Stanley, reaching over his opened journal to point at an old map of the area. “This one, Avernus. It’s an actually ancient volcanic crater; still smells vaguely of sulfur too.”

“So when we smell rotten eggs we’re close?” Stanley interjects. His chin is in his hand and looks vaguely bored by it all. Ford presses on despite it though, choosing not to engage.

“The Romans believed it was the entrance to the Underworld, so surrounding the lake will be ancient Roman and Greek ruins. But we’re looking for a cave. It won’t be easy to find either, as I expect that if no one’s reported to have found it yet then it has to be well-hidden. I, of course, have a knack for finding anomalies, so I expect not to encounter much trouble.”

“Are those your grandkids?” 

Ford is taken aback by the interruption. He doesn’t understand what he means, and his mouth parts and eyes narrow in bewilderment as he looks back out at him. Finally he thinks to follow Stanley’s gaze, turning to look over his shoulder in search of whatever had prompted the odd comment. 

Much to his horror, there-right behind him on the edge of the cabin window-sits a framed picture of Dipper, Mabel, and the pig. In his haste a few days ago he must have forgotten to hide it with the others. 

“No,” he answers, working incredibly hard to keep his voice neutral. He turns back around and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “No, those are...a neighbor’s children. They’re fond of me, so I’ve been indulging them with letters and postcards of our trip.” 

“Oh.” Stanley scratches his head and finally turns his gaze away. “Makes...sense. Didn’t really take you as a family man anyway. That’s real nice of you though, Sixer. ”

Ford sees pain on his face, something he’d wanted his stupid lies to spare him. “Yes, well.”

“I thought...I just...they’re twins too, so I thought…” He watches Stanley struggle, hands twisting in his lap until he waves one to dismiss the whole conversation. “Nevermind what I thought. It’s dumb.”

“You thought that because we’re twins, maybe we have relatives that are twins as well,” Ford says carefully. “It’s not dumb, Stanley. In fact, statistically, it’s more likely.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he scoffs. “Just thought it’d be nice to have some grandkids waiting for us back home. Grandkids for you, grand nieces and nephews for me. But you and me, we’re not the type, are we?” 

Ford knows it’s not a rhetorical question; he’s looking for an answer, some kind of clarification. 

“We’re not the type,” he murmurs. He doesn’t want to continue the conversation. He’s done now, thoroughly depressed by the whole exchange. 

“Did you ever want to though?” 

The question piques his curiosity, and he perks up, albeit ever-so-slightly. “Ever want to - what?”

Stanley shrugs, leaning his broad arms on to the table. “You know what I mean. Get married, have kids, settle down -- all that happy horseshit.” 

Ford blinks and sits up, then back against the chair. “I suppose I’ve had the odd, passing thought...but haven’t we all?”

“Nothing serious though.”

“Well, no,” Ford mutters. Out of habit he reaches for his journal, closing it up and fiddling with the ribbon bookmark. “Between school and my scholarly pursuits, I admit I never really warmed to the idea.”

Stanley laughs under his breath and sits back as well, mimicking Ford’s posture without even realizing it. “Scholarly pursuits. You big nerd.” He shakes his head in mock disapproval. “You didn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend that made you think...hey, this marriage thing might not be so bad?” 

“Never,” Ford replies, surprising himself with how adamant he sounds. It’s enough to even make Stanley recoil a little. 

“Never?”

“Never had the thought,” he tells him firmly. 

“Never been in love?” Stanley presses, and Ford replies by grabbing his journal and getting to his feet. 

“It’s getting late, Stanley,” he says, letting his exhaustion finally show through. “We should be getting to bed. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

Stanley stretches his arms over his head and yawns loudly, comically blinking as he rises to his feet. The conversation is effectively dropped, no fuss no muss. “Yeah, guess so. Long day of spelunking.” He puts away his plate and starts for the bedroom, but pauses when Ford doesn’t make a move to follow. “You coming?”

“In a bit.” 

He’s already halfway out the door of the cabin. The sharp sea air hits his skin like little shards of glass and he takes a few deep breaths, waiting until his heart stops racing to finally lower the journal from where he had it clenched tightly against his chest. 

Tomorrow, he reminds himself, will either be the happiest day of his life, or the most tragic. At the moment either outcome terrifies him.


	10. Styx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more chapters to go, folks! Thanks for all the support. c:
> 
> And of course, thank you to my beta, wannabeagrunklefan! Not only does she voluntarily wade through this word mess, but she's a fabulous person to boot.

Ford sleeps in the kitchen that night, his feet propped up on the table and his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s exhausted so he sleeps uninterrupted, the first time in a long while that he’s been able to by Stan’s count. 

Stan, who’s gotten up in the middle of the night looking for something, a glass of water or a second blanket, or maybe even a warm body, had stumbled over him. When he doesn’t wake from the sound of Stan’s heavy footsteps or the noise of him knocking into the table in the dark, he lets out the breath he’s been holding. Ford seems so worn out, it’d be a shame to wake him. He turns on his heel to leave, but he notices that Ford’s journal has fallen to the floor, landing on its spine so that its contents are splayed out for the world to see. Out of courtesy for the other man, and because he probably knocked it to the ground in the first place, he reaches for it with the intent of putting it back. 

He isn’t interested in the journal or what’s inside. He’d read some of it before in Iceland -- it’s too heady and logical for his taste, and he knows that it bothers Ford when he glances over his shoulder as he writes. In every sense it’s not for Stan, so he doesn’t know what compels him to have another look instead of putting it away. 

Maybe it’s the sight of the page itself that calls to him, practically crammed to the margins with scribbled words and nothing else, or maybe because he happens to spy his name in the ink. Either way he takes the journal back into the bedroom with him, slowly creeping the entire way because he knows this is so, so wrong. It’s never stopped him before though, and it won’t do so now either. 

At first he just flips the closed journal over and over in his hands, running his fingers over the simple binding and the embossing in the leather, as if he’s trying to make some sort of show about his decision. There isn’t hesitation, not really, but he knows the thing in his hands is just like holding Ford’s brain itself. Stan takes one more deep breath, then cracks the journal open and flips to the first page. There’s no skimming this time, no looking for pretty pictures; he’s going to read this thing from start to finish. 

There’s a lot of cryptic notes at first -- data, coordinates for future journeys, technical observations...boring stuff. Expected stuff. But there’s also little scribblings that Stan supposes could be called journal entries, talking about the day’s events and jotting down some of the more interesting things they encountered. He likes reading those. They’re warm and personal and funny, especially when Ford’s quoting him, and Stan’s heart beats a little faster each time he reads his own name. 

Which, as he begins to get further along, appears more and more. 

_We’ve spotted a dolphin following the boat. Stanley’s taken to calling it Flipper and throwing it the discarded crusts from our sandwiches. So far Flipper has yet to take him up on this culinary delight._

_Stanley’s starting to sing sea shanties. He’s definitely making up all the words as he goes along. There’s no mythical pirate named Captain Zubaz._

_There was a big storm last night, but Stanley insisted on taking the helm. Strange, I wouldn’t trust him behind the wheel of a car, but I felt oddly safe with him steering a boat._

_Today Stanley couldn’t remember our mother’s name._

Stan pauses at these words, looking at the dot of ink at the end of the sentence and touching it with his thumb, so final and yet clearly unhappy. 

He expects the rest of the journal to have much of the same, more ramblings about mythical sea creatures and theories about potential alternate existences, but from the moment Ford first mentions his memory loss the journal’s content shifts. Instead of the pages of nerdy notekeeping he’s come to expect it’s just...him. The Book of Stanley Pines. His mannerisms, his patterns of forgetfulness, his moods, his likes and dislikes. It’s pages after pages of Ford writing only about him, and Stan knows he’s definitely made a mistake in reading the journal but he can’t look away.

Ford’s recorded stories, their shared history and experiences living above a pawn shop. There’s pages of rambling text, little moments and recollections from their childhood right into their late teen years. For Stan it’s like reading a story about somebody else’s life. He eats it up, all of it, the ups and downs, the adventures on the beach and the bullying at school, the secret twin language and the tent forts made from the ‘good sheets’. He reads about holding a pre-teen Ford while he sobbed fretfully into his chest over some disaster at school, sneaking out of the house to sit on the roof and watch the stars, and giggling madly over each other’s terrible jokes in the middle of the night. 

Stan’s always made Ford laugh. He sees the parallels between the journal entries and the stories from their childhood. And the dream of one day sailing away - that’s actually happened! 

The usual sting from not knowing isn’t there; these stories are happy, and he knows there’s a happy ending because he’s living it. Besides, tomorrow they’d find the river or pool or whatever and fix his brain for good. He smiles to himself and continues to indulge in Ford’s writing, snickering softly at the awkwardness of their teen years. Thank god he couldn’t remember _that_. 

Stan barely takes notice of the time, he’s too delighted by the scribbles. He starts in on the page about prom and finds himself having to stuff his knuckles into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. If he didn’t know this was about his younger self he’d be charmed by his own antics. He feels the closeness between them, the affection and the comradery, and he sees Ford slowly revealing more and more of his own feelings with each memory.

As they age and the stories become more specific there’s a gradual shift in Ford’s tone, and Stan feels it before he actually reads an example of it. Forced rivalry between them seems to have been a thing; little wedges being driven into their relationship on a daily basis by their father or by teachers or by the other kids. Ford starts to get less straightforward in his storytelling, more introspective, and Stan feels some regret and guilt radiating off his words. Deep in the pit of his stomach Stan knows something bad’s going to come. 

He gets to it three pages later. 

_I never knew what happened to him, and in fact, I never cared to ask._ It’s an ominous start to what appears to be a long, rambling addition to the journal. Stan braces himself, then continues. _I was so angry at his selfishness that I let our dad throw him out and never even protested. Ma was horrified, but no one ever spoke of it once the old man slammed the door shut. They took his pictures down. Shermie didn’t even know he had a second brother. Graduation came and I walked alone, and no one said anything. It was as though everyone had already erased him, and I’d been the only one still holding on all these years._

_I should make it clear - I wanted it to happen. I wanted him to pay for hurting me and my chances at a good school and a good life. I would have taken him with me wherever I went; that’s what I told myself at the time. He did this to himself, I said. I would have sent for him after I’d settled in, I said. We would have still been best friends, if only he’d been patient. If only he hadn’t been so bullheaded and reckless, I would have gotten us both out of that damn town._

_I was completely wrong, of course. I would have never looked back if I’d gotten into that school. A group of academic bigwigs had told me that I was special - unique even - and that was the end of it for me and my ego. Whether destroying my science fair project was an accident or not, after leaving for college I would have gradually lost touch with Stanley. Our relationship would have been doomed no matter what had happened between us._

_I still think of that day. I still think of him, trying to call for me through the window. I used to have nightmares about it constantly before Bill started popping into my head. Even then, when Bill had corrupted my brain and turned me half-crazed, he and Stanley would take turns tormenting me in my dreams. Bill with his laugh, Stanley with that dejected, disbelieving, heartbroken stare towards the window._

_It’s only recently occurred to me that Stanley’s had a hard life. Stupid, selfish me. Aside from being furious at him I didn’t even take a moment to consider him once I closed those drapes. We didn’t have any family, and he didn’t have too many friends other than me. I don’t know how he survived, and it haunts me. I doubt I could stomach to hear some of his stories even now. It’s my fault he became homeless, my fault he went to prison, my fault that he became a criminal and wasn’t able to live a life of his own. Even now, as I write this, I haven’t really processed some of these truths. It’s so hard to see outside of yourself sometimes._

_I was so angry at him when he came to Gravity Falls that day. He was repulsive to me, narrow minded, ignorant, and unapologetic. He didn’t know anything! He never even cared to know, and there he was trying to burn my life’s work! But it’s funny what goes through your mind when you’re mid-peril. As the portal drew me in, all I could think was, ‘Stan will save me!’_

_The nightmares were horrific and constant when I was on the other side, as was the loneliness. When I was young and things weren’t so complicated, I knew that I loved him. I’ll even admit to being head over heels for him. Then the portal closed and it was all gone, and I was left to linger with my mistakes for what I’d believed to be the rest of my life. I was lonely for him, but I was angry with him too. It was worse some days, better others, but never did I ever once lose my frustration with him._

_I was so fickle. I still am, I suppose. Even when Stanley returned me to this dimension I was so used to being on my own, and being right, and I resisted every little attempt at making amends. I wanted to be angry and cold because it seemed like less effort than trying to be happy. _

_I do love him, I just couldn’t remember it through all the bitterness and resentment. And now that it’s all come back to me, hurt abated and feelings back where they rightfully belong, Stanley’s gone and forgotten every little piece of himself. And of us. I just wish I could fill his head with good memories, instead of making him try and relive whatever hell he’s gone through._

_I just want him back. I’ll do anything. I’ll give him my thirty years just like he’s given me his...if we even have that much time left._

Stan reads the passage two more times, then shuts the book. He brings it to his chest and rocks in place slowly, head bowed. 

They threw him out. His family erased him from their lives. His brother turned his back on him. 

He’s a goddamn criminal. 

He rocks faster, the journal dropping to the floor as he reaches to cover his face. Ford loved him, but he let their dad kick them out. Ma just stood by. They forgot him -- the family shame.

He doesn’t realize that in his distress he’s made some noise, not until the sound of Ford coughing brings him out of his stupor.  
_________________________________

Ford wakes with the sunrise, sitting up with a stretch and a loud pop of one of his shoulders. He feels much better than he had the night before, hopeful and even optimistic that the new day will bring some closure. There’s adventure to be had too, and with Stanley to boot, the idea making his tired body thrum with excitement. 

But before the day can begin he needs coffee. He shuffles for the hob and hears the oddest sound -- sort of a low wailing coming from the bedroom. He fears the worst, but he’s not eager to rush in. Heart in his throat he edges towards the door and slides it open, peering in and giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the lighting. 

There’s Stanley, head in his hands, his journal on the floor. 

Ford already knows what’s happened. He’s read it, all of it, and so he knows better than to rush to his side. He coughs instead, and it’s a wretched sight to behold when Stanley does finally raise his head. His eyes are bloodshot and there are deep circles underneath them, clear signs of a restless night. More than that though, and a thousand times more concerning, is the look of sheer agony on his face.

“Stanley,” he says feebly. He’s already horrendous with this emotional comfort sort of thing, but he fears now they’re at the edge of a mental break. 

But Stanley does something that surprises him. He raises himself up, straightens his jaw, and reaches for the journal. He doesn’t bother looking into it again, instead calmly extending it out to Ford and waiting for him to take it.

“Sorry,” he tells him gruffly, “here.” 

Ford takes it from him, but he also steps further inside the room. “It’s...fine. Stanley, are you okay?” Dumb question, he knows, but he’s frightened by how calm he’s being. 

“Yeah,” Stanley replies, “I’m golden.” He climbs to his slippered feet and begins to root around in his trunk for his clothes. “I’m...not going today. Just so you know.”

The unexpectedness of the declaration has Ford caught off guard. “Wha...what? You’re not going? Why?”

Stanley closes his eyes and inhales, holding the breath for a couple of seconds while Ford stands there quietly fretting. When he does finally breathe again, Ford finds that his expression has changed. He’s angry now - enraged even - his brow furrowing and his teeth gritted in his head. 

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ford replies softly. Out of all the possibilities he concocted in his head if Stanley ever did read the journal, this was not one of them. 

“No?” Stanley wheels around, fire in his eyes as he stomps over to Ford. “Why the hell would I want to remember any of that? Why the hell would I want to remember what a fuckup I am!” 

“Woah, Stanley, what?” Ford raises his hands, journal and all, up next to his face. He doesn’t want to fight him, he just wants to understand this time. “No one’s saying you’re a fuckup.”

“Are you -- _are you kidding me_?” Stanley grabs the journal back out of Ford’s hand and flips it open. “You did! You wrote it right here!” He shoves the book into Ford’s face, Ford turning to avoid having his nose pressed into the pages.

“Did you even read it? I didn’t write--”

“It’s implied!” he hisses, slamming the journal shut and throwing it onto the floor. It lands hard; Ford thinks the binding might have broken, and for a second Stanley actually looks...alarmed. Panicked. “Your journal…” 

He hurries to it, picking up the pages that have fluttered out from the impact, trying in vain to stuff them back inside. Ford hears the crumpling of paper, an angry grunt, then some muttering. He makes out a few of the words as he dares to draw near, mouth falling open in shock at the sight of his brother’s shaking hands. “Your journal, fuck...I broke it…I can fix it...I can...if I just…” 

Ford reaches for him, grazing his shoulder with his fingers before grasping it firmly. It’s broad and hairy, and he can still see the burn from so many years ago outlined underneath his white shirt. “Stanley…”

“I break everything,” he whispers. His hands drop and he sags forward, the loose pages spilling back out, blanketing the hard, wooden floor in Ford’s studies and confessions.

Ford kneels beside him, hand still firm on his shoulder, trying to keep the both of them upright. “You don’t,” he says, knowing it’s weak but needing something to fill the air. “You don’t, Stan. You’re...the glue that holds our family together.” 

“Sure…”

“No, it’s true,” Ford tells him, a little more firmly now. He swings his other arm around so that he’s able to grip Stanley by both shoulders, forcing him to look into his face. “You don’t realize how important you are, Stanley. Our family would be nothing.” 

Stanley’s eyes soften; Ford can see that he wants so badly to believe him. 

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” he presses, but it causes the opposite of his intended action. Stanley sits up suddenly and pushes Ford off of him, causing him to fall back on the floor.

“I couldn’t save you from that portal...thing,” he counters, almost snidely, as though he’s gained some sort of upper hand. As though any of this was some kind of contest between the two of them. And then, after he’s stared into Ford’s forlorn face, he adds a little more softly, “what did I do?”

He couldn’t have sounded any more heartbroken. Ford rights himself and shakes his head, rubbing his hands over his face until his eyesight starts to blur. “It wasn’t you, it was _us_. We fought--”

“I tried to burn your life’s work. And then…what? I pushed you? You got sucked in? What happened to you, Ford? Thirty years...that’s a long time.” Ford has to give it to Stanley, he’s more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for. “What did I do, Ford? Where did you go for thirty years?”

“Like I said,” Ford says sharply, “it wasn’t you. It was us. I built the portal, and I fell into it when we were fighting. It wasn’t entirely your fault.”

“But we wouldn’t have fought if it wasn’t for me,” he counters. “And you didn’t answer my question. Where did you go?” 

Ford doesn’t exactly back down, but the bit of fight that was in him dims enough that he stops trying to steer the conversation. “It was an alternate dimension.” 

Stanley’s face goes blank. Then, and oh-so-slowly, does his mouth begin to droop into a horrified gape. He stares like something up top has short-circuited, like he couldn’t possibly comprehend the magnitude of what Ford was saying. Which was likely true. “For thirty years,” he finally says. He licks his lips and reaches to one side, blindly searching for something to cling to while he rights himself. “Were there...aliens?”

“Yes,” Ford answers. “If you want to call them that.” Because technically _he’d_ been the alien those thirty years, but it was all relative.

“No humans?”

“No planet Earth, Stanley. No universe as we know it,” he rejoins calmly. Stanley’s clearly overwhelmed -- Ford wouldn’t be surprised if steam started to shoot out his ears. 

“All alone,” he mutters, sitting himself back down on the bed.

“I suppose.” Ford hauls himself up too. “Sometimes it felt that way.” More often than not, but he’s not about to make things worse for Stanley. “I’d made a life though. Well, as much as you can in another dimension.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Stanley grimaces. He puts his head into his hands and rubs -- just like Ford had done only moments earlier. “I mean, I don’t even know how you’d survive something like that.”

Ford twists and folds his hands, looking away from Stanley lest he somehow read the expression on his face. Survival hadn’t been easy. It was years before he was able to communicate effectively with the beings he’d encountered in that dimension, and he has the scars to prove that not everyone was so friendly and welcoming. There were long days spent wandering strange landscapes, nights that he would sleep out in the cold, weeks that he went without food for fear of his human body being accidentally poisoned. He’d alternated between intense fear and blinding rage at the prospect of crossing paths with Bill, and he was always, always chased by the nagging thought that he’d never be comfortable, never be happy, never be loved ever again. 

But even despite it all, he isn’t sure he’d trade places with Stanley. He’d been suited for his hardships, but his brother’s? “I don’t know how you survived what you went through.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stanley’s big hands clench into two tight fists. “So,” he murmurs, and Ford can hear that he’s speaking through his teeth. “So then _why_...why the hell would you want me to remember it?”

A button’s been pushed, and Ford leans back but isn’t quick enough to avoid Stanley’s grasp. He gets him by the shirt front, and he shakes him as his voice practically rises to a shriek. “Why! Tell me! Why do you want me to remember so badly? Why would you want to put me through that? Through all of it! Stanford, why! My family disowned me, my brother hated me, I had my life ruined!” 

“Stanley, _please_ …”

The plea is enough to make Stanley let go, but he’s still wild with anger, jumping to his feet and pacing around the small cabin. “My life, Stanford! My life! I don’t remember a goddamn thing, and it’s bad enough that you’ve got that...that...that look in your eyes! You pity me! And that’s not even getting into the fact that you were living with aliens for thirty years because I did something boneheaded -- but apparently that’s typical for me. Your stupid brother, always holding you back! Screwup Stanley Pines!”

He grunts in disgust and storms out of the bedroom, attempting to slam the flap of plastic that constituted for a door. It rattles for a bit, gets caught on the track and buckles, and Stanley gives up with an enraged scream. “I can’t even slam a door right!” 

Ford silently chides himself; this sort of outburst had been a long time coming, and he’d never anticipated how hurt Stanley would actually be. He stands up when he hears the string of steady cursing move away from the doorframe, poking his head and upper body out from behind the plastic cautiously. 

Stanley’s at the stove, shoulders slumped and face set in a kind of resolved frown. He doesn’t raise his eyes, but he doesn’t flinch when Ford moves closer either. 

“I’m not going,” he says. “Go do what you have to, but I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

If there’s a way to reason this out with his brother, Ford can’t see it. Stanley’s whole demeanor resembles a shrub in the desert - squat, a little bit angry, and utterly resolved to stay despite his own best interests.

“All right, Stanley,” he murmurs, “all right.” He brushes past him gently, letting him stew in silence over the burners as he sits back down at the table to plan out the rest of his day. Or rather, rehash his current plans now that Stanley wasn’t going to join him. It doesn’t feel right to venture out alone, but they’ve already come so far and Ford didn’t spend weeks researching the mythology to simply stop pursuing it. No, he would go, and maybe he might change Stanley’s mind. Perhaps Stanley might change his own mind, though he’s not too hopeful there. 

Boat already docked at the port, Ford decides to leave as soon as possible for Cumae and Lake Avernus. He doesn’t want to stay and dwell on the things Stanley’s said to him any longer. 

In the _Aeneid_ , Virgil had the Cumaean Sibyl guide his protagonist into the underworld. Ford knows that it’s silly to look to an ancient work of fiction for directions - he’s most definitely not a hero, nor will he meet some magical prophetess to help him along the way - but he keeps the work close to him as he begins his stroll about the edge of the crater-formed Lake Avernus. 

It’s a beautiful area, even though the lake stinks slightly of rotten eggs. The trees are lush and dense, and he can’t walk more than ten steps without coming across some kind of ruin- be it Greek, Roman, Baroque or, much to his surprise, a 70s-era disco and restaurant. He stops to peer into that particular dilapidated building, curiosity driven solely by the fact that someone had deemed it appropriate to build a den of glitter and coke next to the entrance of the alleged underworld. It was...curiously apt. 

Most of the areas surrounding the lake aren’t open to the public, but Ford simply looks the other way as he trudges onward. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly he’s looking for so he has to sweep the area, but if he’s caught he’s got a dynamite impression of a lost tourist at the ready. 

The most obvious place to begin his search is a large, underground tunnel called Cocceio's Cave, which historically served as a passageway from the town of Cumae to the lake. He’s quick to brush it aside though -- it was reportedly large enough to pass chariots though, and what’s even more telling, tourists passed through regularly. No, the ancient and undiscovered entrance to the underworld would be something less obvious. What he needs to find is a large cavern or a cave; that’s the route Aeneas took into the underworld. 

As the hours tick by, evening growing nearer with each dragging step, Ford begins to feel despondence creeping up on him. Suppose he does find this mythical entrance to some kind of ‘underworld’ -- there’s no guarantee that he’ll stumble across something that’ll save Stanley’s mind. For the first time since coming up with the plan he begins to feel foolish, like the idea was a complete waste of time and effort. His ego fights him on it, but with each step his determination begins to wane. 

Too stubborn to quit but too embarrassed to press on, Ford finally trudges over to a large mass of boulders to have a rest. He’d checked earlier -- the anomaly tracker on his wrist says there’s something here. It could be anything though, a monster in the lake, some kind of troll or elf hiding out in the woods...Italian gnomes. Anything.

He checks the device again and taps it impatiently when the red dot appears, staring out at him mockingly. He’s never had this problem before; anomalies tended to flock to him like he was some kind of weirdness magnet. Ford grumbles to himself as he gives in and takes out an area map from his pocket, beginning the long process of unfolding it in order to figure out what side of the lake he’d ended up on. The map’s so big that his arms comically stretch in front of him, and he leans back so that he can get a wider view of the various points of interest and his proximity. 

A cool breeze drifts past his ear, rattling the map ever-so-slightly, but Ford only has eyes for the trails and monuments. There’s a thicket behind him, a nice mass of greenery to lean on, and as he does so to get more comfortable he feels it give. Not break, just give. He settles there for a moment, occasionally twisting and turning the map in his hands to get a different view, when he feels the plants start to buckle. Ford freezes in place; then the wall gives entirely and with the slightest of rustling he’s gone, falling backwards through the vegetation and entirely out of sight. 

He lands hard on a cool stone floor, his map slowly sailing away until it disappears completely into the darkness. He’s not hurt, thankfully, but it takes him a moment to actually crawl back up to his feet. He’s disoriented by the fall, his eyes straining to make sense of his unexpected change of scenery. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be,” he grumbles to himself, reaching into his numerous pockets until he finally produces a flashlight. 

There’s a deep, slowly-sloping, endless blackness in front of him. A bat squeaks and a drop of water lands on his head. 

Ford breaks into a grin.

He only has to walk a little ways into the cave before he finds a set of crudely-carved stairs. If there was some shadow of a doubt that he’d found something significant before, he’s absolutely certain now. He follows the stairs deep, deep down, through rounded curves that trace the edge of the cavern and then, right as the surface begins to even out, right back under the path and moving towards the lake, leaving the last small glimmers of natural light behind him.

The droplets that fall on his head are pervasive, the sound of the bats quieted and then finally silenced altogether. He trudges along for what feels like hours, ducking through narrow doorways and passing old and long-forgotten altars. Occasionally he pauses to look at the soot drawings that litter the cavern walls, but he never dwells for too long on any particular image. The sight of the ghoulish faces reflecting back at him, the most common theme amongst the cavern drawings, makes his stomach turn with unease.

His flashlight has been shining steadily out in front of him, but when the beam suddenly ceases to illuminate the path ahead Ford stops in his tracks. Was there a wall up ahead? A cave in? Had he reached the end of the passageway? He tilts the light to try to find an edge, but instead comes across what looks like a metal pull. 

“A door,” he says to himself, and almost immediately begins to jog forward. 

It’s not just any old door -- it’s a _gigantic_ , ancient-looking door, with rusted hinges and old relief images cast in green-tinged bronze that cover the entire surface. When Ford shines the light on the door he can see people in the reliefs, and creatures, all twisted together in unnatural poses, the same eerie faces on each and every human figure. He moves the light from panel to panel, then finally shines it on the latch of the door. It’s rusted, but it looks like it’ll hold. Ford, however, does something he’s not typically known for -- he pauses for consideration. 

What did the Sibyl say to Aeneas? “Getting into the underworld is easy, it’s leaving that’s difficult”. Ford can’t stop thinking about this, and the very real possibility that there is something otherworldly waiting for him behind this door. 

But it’s for Stanley. No matter what happens, it’s all for Stanley. 

Inhaling sharply, he grabs the ring and gives a gentle push with his shoulder. Much to his surprise the door begins to move, though it’s practically all rust and decay at this point, and Ford gives it one more great shove and before it finally swings open. 

There’s nothing in front of him, just more of the same darkness. Bewildered and not quite sure what to expect, Ford steps forward, edging slowly into the blackness before the sound of the door suddenly slamming shut behind him echoes throughout the cavern. 

He wheels around and fumbles for his flashlight, but there’s nothing and no one, and the only sound is his own nervous breathing. Then he hears it -- a raspy, low cackle, echoing up through the cavern chambers behind him.

“Who’s there?!” 

The flashlight’s beam bounces around, uncovering another steep path and a shiny surface far beyond that. The cackling stops, interrupted by a bone-shaking cough, and Ford moves forward to seek out the source of the noise. 

Somewhere along the path he realizes that he’s no longer in a small cavern. In fact, it doesn’t much feel like a cave either. The air seems fresher somehow, the path less damp, and-impossibly-light begins to pierce the ceaseless darkness. It’s still dim, almost like twilight, but the light is there, brightening the long path in front of him and illuminating the shining spot up ahead.

It’s a river, and much to Ford’s astonishment there’s a small pier with a skiff moored to one of the posts. There’s a man standing there too, tall and kind of bulky, a massive beard practically covering half his face and a tiny-looking cigarette poking out of his mouth. He’s preoccupied by something in his hands, so much so that his eyes are glued to it as Ford approaches. 

The thing in the man’s hand buzzes, and he chuckles to himself for a moment before tossing it into his pocket. Ford catches a glimpse of what he assumes to be an ancient rune or sacred marking on his shirt, but the longer he stares the more obvious it becomes that it’s just a band t-shirt. “I don’t have all day,” the man grumbles, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and flicking the ash into the river. “You getting on or what?”

“Charon, I assume.” It’s not a particularly clever guess -- who _else_ could this possibly be?

The man coughs and nods. “Twenty bucks.” 

“For…?”

He rolls his eyes. “For the ride.” He stubs out the cigarette and tosses the butt into the river too.

“I...didn’t realize you were expecting modern currency.” 

“Yeah, well,” he grunts, reaching for a long pole that was half-submerged in the river, “gotta stay with the times. You gonna pay me or what?” 

Ford’s at a loss. He doesn’t have any money on him -- he didn’t exactly anticipate having to shell out twenty dollars for a boat ride today. Charon must see the hesitation, because he rolls his eyes and flicks his wrist for Ford to step on the pier. 

“Paypal,” he says. “Give me an email address and I’ll invoice you. None of that bitcoin shit though.” 

Barely any of those words make sense to Ford, but he nods eagerly and follows him into the small skiff. 

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Ford admits. “Ferrying people across Styx, I mean. It’s…”

“Archaic. Yeah, I know. Not too many people come this way anymore. We’ve got a bridge on the other side, but Boss likes the old methods.” He coughs again and throws the rope off the tiny boat, which remains surprising steady considering two grown men were standing upright in it. “I wanna convert to one of those airboats they’ve got in Florida. You know the ones, with the big fans? Those. But Boss...” 

Charon looks downright bored as he stabs at the water and begins to move the skiff through it, as though he’s done it a thousand...no, a million times. Ford watches his movements for a little while, then stares off towards the other side. The shoreline has risen up significantly as they’ve sailed along - tall, misty canyon walls jutting out to loom over their heads menacingly.

“Your boss?” he asks.

“Yeah, he’s a hardass,” Charon grumbles. “Look, what are you looking for? This place is huge.” 

“Mnemosyne.”

Charon whistles. “What’s she done to you?”

“Wh--what now? Who?”

“Oh, yeah, duh.” He makes a face and taps his head, chuckling that same, raspy chuckle again. “You’re probably looking for the spring. She’s cool, though, Mnemosyne. Kind of a know-it-all sometimes, but she’s pretty chill. You’d think she wouldn’t be, nine kids, single mom, but nope, _totally_ chill. The spring’s over by Lethe. I can get you as far as the marsh, but then you’re on your own.”

There’s a lot going on in Charon’s little ramble. Ford focuses on the relevant part, stashing away the rest for later. “Marsh?”

“Yeah,” he says. He pulls on the pole and gives the skiff enough momentum that he’s able to stop and light another cigarette. “It’s where all the rivers meet. I’ll take you down that way, no charge.”

Ford snorts in disbelief. “No charge?”

“Yeah!” Charon says, reaching out and punching Ford on the arm. He tries not to wince too openly, but _fuck_ , it hurts. “Yeah, I’ll take you. You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing down here though. It’s probably been about two hundred years since someone’s taken the long way in.” 

Ford can’t believe how quickly Charon’s attitude has turned, but he’s smart enough not to press his luck. Maybe he’s lonely...but definitely he’s bored out of his skull.

“I told you, I’m looking for Mnemosyne. Does it do what the stories say it does?” 

“Nah, man, I’m talking about the reason behind the search.” He takes a long drag off the cigarette, then pushes and looks back at Ford. “Want one?”

He shakes his head. “Those things will kill you.”

Charon laughs gruffly. “Yeah, well.” He shoves it back into his mouth and shoves the pole back into the river. 

He falls quiet, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Ford, waiting for him to open his mouth again. He gives in with a sigh. It wasn’t as though he could just walk away from the conversation. “My brother lost his memory.” 

“Ah. That old chestnut.”

“So I’m not the first, I take it.” 

“No, but people don’t really come down here seeking cures or prophecies or wisdom anymore. Not like in the old days.” 

“Can you tell me more about the old--”

“The old days sucked.” 

Charon’s pocket vibrates and he juggles the pole in one hand to retrieve the phone. He stares at the message and snorts. “Pfft, he wishes. Like I can just take a day off,” he mutters to himself, stuffing the phone back into a pocket. “Anyway, it doesn’t work.” 

Ford’s momentarily distracted by the sight of a far-off glow on the other side of the shore, so he’s slow to react. “What doesn’t--”

“Mnemosyne, the spring. Not without your brother here with you,” Charon interrupts, punctuating it with an impatient huff. “You can’t just bottle that shit up and take it with you.”

Ford stiffens. “But then... it does work?” 

“Oh, sure,” Charon shrugs. “Well, used to. No one’s drank from that spring in a few thousand years, and even then it had some side effects. People got to be too all-knowing. Freaked out Boss, so he closed off the whole area. No one likes an omniscient mortal. But anyway, don’t get too excited, because like I was telling you, it doesn’t work unless he comes down here for himself.”

Omniscient is not a good word. In fact, it’s a very, very, _very_ troublesome word. Ford pales slightly and finally takes a seat in the skiff, causing it to gently rock as Charon continues his ferrying. “Are you still taking me to the marsh?” he says, though his voice never raises above a whisper. 

“If you want,” Charon replies, twisting his body to look behind him. He flicks his finished cigarette into the river like the one before, staring hard at Ford’s face until he’d gleaned whatever he needed and turning right back around. “Or...you could talk to Boss. If you want. I can’t leave the river, but I can point you in the right direction.”

“Why would I want to see your boss for?”

Charon grins widely. “To plead your case.”

They get to the point where the rivers merge and Charon lets Ford off, holding tight to the pier until his passenger is safely on semi-solid ground. With a bit of a dopey salute he kicks off from the pier, the skiff floating slowly and dramatically back into the main body of the river. Thanks to the ferryman, Ford’s head is full of helpful directions and advice for navigating the underworld, and so he’s in a far better mood when he returns the goofy salute. 

“Thank you!” he calls out to him. 

“You’re welcome! And remember what I said! Oh, and rate me on yelp!”

“Yes, of course!” Ford laughs. He watches him drift away, then snaps out of his fog and runs to the edge of the pier. When would he get this chance again? “Charon! Charon, why were you laughing earlier?”

“What?”

“When I first walked through the door, I heard you laughing!” Well, cackling. “I thought it was some ominous sign or something! What was so funny?”

“Oh! It was this thing on buzzfeed!” Charon yells back, pulling out his phone and waving it for Ford to see. “There’s this video with a dog sneezing -- you have to look it up when you get topside! It’s hysterical!”

“What’s a buzzfeed?”

“Dude, you are so old!”

The same cackle from before echoes back at him long after Charon disappears, but it sounds far less sinister to Ford's ears this time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone remember zubaz pants? Google them. You probably had an uncle who wore them.


	11. Wayfinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hearty thank you to my beta, wannabeagrunklefan at tumblr dot com, who put up with me and took the time to edit the sixteen or so versions of this chapter. And credit where credit is due, she came up with the super-fun angle I took with the Furies. She's absolutely wonderful, and I don't know what I'd do without her!

As Ford stands on the bank of the River Styx and gathers his bearings, he marvels that the underworld is a lot less dark and creepy than how one might imagine. Have the illustrations in his book gotten it all wrong? He doesn’t see any hellfire down the path ahead, nor are spirits of tormented souls staggering about in agony, wailing and gnashing their teeth. It’s all rather peaceful, actually. Hauntingly beautiful too, and oddly surreal. 

He takes a step forward and nearly lurches; it feels as though he’s stepped through a wall of jelly. Everything slows up, his movements hindered by that invisible wall. He wonders briefly if this is a symptom of the living visiting the realm of the dead. Would it make sense for a mortal to experience the underworld in a different way? He takes another cautious step, and then another when he doesn’t fall - very carefully finding a pace that balances the heaviness in his limbs so he can carry on. At one point he raises his hand to his forehead and marvels as the the colors of his own skin blur- hand leaving flesh-colored streaks in his line of vision as he moves it back to his side. 

The cobblestone path from the River Styx into the deeper parts of the underworld leads through the overflow of the combining rivers, forming a truly miserable marshland that gurgles in a one-sided conversation as Ford passes through it. He treks into a twisted forest, so dense and dark he can barely see five feet in front of him, and then comes across a wide and almost never-ending expanse of rolling hills. There are ancient-looking structures throughout it all; altars and temples and tall rows of columns, some in complete ruin and some less forlorn, all simply existing in the dreary marshland or in between lifeless trunks of tangled trees and the wide expanse of grey sky above. 

The path diverts and splits in places, going into pockets of the underworld inhabited by shadows and monsters and who-knows-what-else. At one point the path itself rises up around him and closes over his head to form a high structure with marble columns and stone arches. His footsteps echo even in the wide fields, his breath shallowing in awe. He moves through each new landscape quickly, never following those stray paths. Tartarus, the fabled city of cruel and ingenious punishment, is far off in the distance still, a few flickering lights from fires twinkling like horrifying stares sending an orange hue above high, Medieval-looking walls. 

It’s so quiet. He knows there are others here, there must be, but he sees no one. He feels utterly alone, and in that loneliness, a small twinge of despair. This, he reminds himself, is the true nature of the underworld. Not the rolling fields or grand monuments, but quiet sorrow. And maybe not-so-quiet sorrow in Tartarus. He can only imagine how it would be to encounter this place in the afterlife. 

Wisely, Ford doesn’t dwell on those thoughts. He’s not overly superstitious - if believing that superstitions could often be based in truth even counted - but he’s wary of falling into a trap he can’t get out of, whether physically, mentally or emotionally. It’s easier to find your way in that it is to leave. He believes this, even if he isn’t sure why that is yet. 

According to his studies, the path will eventually split in two. One way would lead to Tartarus, the other to Elysian Fields. As intrigued as he is by the concept of eternal damnation, Ford is determined to stay as far away from the city as possible. He travels on, listening for signs of life, or non-life, or monstrous-sounding shrieks -- anything, at this point.

Eventually Ford all but stumbles over a fork in the road. A low wall had begun to rise up from the path as well, but just on one side, almost trying to guide the wanderer in one direction over the other. In a moment of restrained panic he realizes he can no longer see the glow of Tartarus. He doesn’t know where each path will take him.

At the junction itself three creatures sit perched up on the wall, all of them chatting merrily away amongst themselves until one finally lifts its head and acknowledges him with an icy stare. Female, Ford observes, humanoid; black, leathery wings on their backs and eyes as red as fresh blood. When they turn their attention to him, those red eyes shamelessly scanning his body from top to bottom, Ford can see something slithering around in their hair. 

And oddly enough, there are rollerskates on their feet. 

“Hello, who’s this?” says the creature that had initially spotted him. She grins, exposing a set of pointed teeth, and slides off from her perch to glide out in front of him. The other two stay where they are, but they join the other in a sharp smile.

“Hello,” Ford replies. He’s trying to remember who these three are. There are snakes in their hair, but they’re not gorgons.

“It’s been years since we’ve had a visitor, hasn’t it, sisters?”

The two laugh, and it unsettles the hell out of Ford. The one in the path notices his discomfort and shakes her head.

“Oh, we’ve gone and made him uncomfortable,” she says, and Ford notes that she sounds oddly… _sincere_. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’m Meg, this is Tisi, and that’s Alec.”

“We’re the Erinyes,” chirps Alec. She sets a worn emery board down on the stone wall, raising her hand up to inspect her pointed, claw-like fingernails. Her feet kick out to flash those scuffed rollerskates, painted with multi-colored skulls.

“The Dirae,” the third supplies. 

“You’ve heard of us?” asks the one in the path. Meg, Ford reminds himself. She begins to skate around him, still dragging her blood-red eyes up and down his body, her hand on her chin as though she’s considering something. “I bet you have. Only the smart ones come down here anymore.”

It took longer than Ford would have liked, but as he stands there it all eventually clicks. “Furies,” he says to himself. “You’re Megaera, Alec...Alecto, and…”

“Tisiphone,” says the third creature. She smiles and the three Furies nod to each other, seemingly pleased at the recognition. 

“He’s a long way from home,” Alec hums. She leans forward and a snake pops its head out from one of her pigtails. 

“Practically the other side of the world,” agrees Meg. She taps her chin and eyes her sisters. “But what is he doing here?” 

“Waiting punishment, Meg,” Alec says. “As they all do.”

“He’s a sinner, to be certain,” whispers Tisi gravely. “Should I take him to Tartarus?” 

“Now hold on, girls--”

“ _Girls_?”

The fire in the eyes of the deity should have been enough to warn Ford to run, but Megaera is even quicker on her feet thanks to the rollerskates. She wheels around and digs her claw into Ford’s sleeve, effortlessly throwing him into the wall between where Tisi and Alecto still sit. The other two lean down and shake their heads at the sorry sight of him. 

“Ladies,” he gasps, “I apologize. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” 

Alec stares even harder into his face, then sighs and takes up her emery board once again. “He means it,” she says. “Truly apologetic.”

“He’s still a sinner though,” Tisi replies. She takes a mirror and some kind of pencil out from a pocket on her jean vest and begins to outline the eyes of a snake that appears from her collar. “Superiority complex, egotist, prone to flattery and bitterness,” she glances down at Ford in a way that makes him squirm, “...incestuous inclinations.”

“I could spend an eternity torturing him just for that,” Alec adds happily. She taps Ford on the head with her board and crosses a leg over the other. “Fortunately there are worse things to be guilty of, Mr. Stanford Pines.”

Ford meets Alec’s steady gaze, but the sound of Meg zooming by on her skates disrupts him. “He has good intentions.”

Tisi and Alec both groan in unison. “Ugh, good intentions!” 

“Yes, yes, _for love_ ,” Meg continues. “You can both see it too, I know you can.”

Tisi finishes her work on the snake and begins to draw long, black wings on her own eyes. “I suppose he is trying to make amends for all that selfishness.”

“Even if he is still very, _very_ selfish,” Alec agrees.

Tisi taps the pencil on her chin. “Well, it isn’t as though his brother is entirely innocent either. They’re both no good.” 

“They’re not evil though,” Meg reminds her two sisters, “in fact, they’ve each punished the other enough, don’t you think?”

“So what are you saying?” Alec murmurs, turning that intense stare towards Meg.

“I’m saying we should do the right thing.” Meg stops right in front of Ford. She leans in, motioning like she’s about to lift him back to his feet, but instead plucks a helmet up from behind the wall and sets it on top of her head. 

“The right thing,” Tisi sighs. “The right thing to do here is to help him to see Dis.”

“Damn you both,” Alec grumbles. She tucks the nail file into one of her pigtails and gathers up two more helmets, handing one to Tisi and keeping the other for herself. “Hey, Stanford Pines, can you skate?”

It takes a moment for Ford to realize he’s being addressed, but he quickly shakes his head no. 

“Of course not.” Alec shakes her head in annoyance. “Come on, get up. We have to go.”

“What?” Ford is grabbed by the collar and hauled to his feet by a bored-looking Tisi. “Where are we going?”

“Didn’t you hear us? We’re taking you to see Dis. And since you can’t skate or fly, we have to get going now. We’ve got a bout in an hour.” 

“A bout?”

Meg grabs Ford’s arm and hauls him back up, jabbing her thumb out towards the path he’s expected to take. “Yeah,” she says, “a bout. Roller derby.”

“Roller derby. Really.”

Alec laughs and stabs him in the back with one of her fingers. “Yeah, roller derby. Get with the times!” He only manages to take one more small, cautious step down the path before he’s poked in the back again, this time by Tisi as she passes him.

“Don’t be too harsh on him,” Meg says, still holding onto his arm. “He’s just an old man!”

“Not that old,” Ford grumbles. He hasn’t spent long enough on this side of the portal to know what’s hip and what’s square. “When did roller derby become popular again?”

“They tried to revive it back in the 70s, but now it’s _huge_ ,” Meg replies. She’s apparently taken a shine to him, or has decided to at least be a little less harsh than her two sisters. She eases up on her pace so that she’s simply gilding along by his side, which gives Ford a chance to look at the writing and pictures on her helmet.

“Meg-adeath,” he reads out loud. 

Meg grins. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” 

“What’s the star on your helmet mean? Are you some kind of captain?”

“Oh, man, he doesn’t know anything!” Tisi cries. “Alec, fill him in, yeah?” 

By the end of the lecture, which included a fairly moving rant about the history of third wave feminism and Riot Grrrl subculture, Ford is convinced his mother would have made a fairly decent derby girl. And though it’s a silly, stupid thought, it makes him sad to dwell on it. 

“Don’t be so down,” Meg tells him, patting his arm gently.

“So you know everything about me? Is that how it works?”

“Well, no, you were just frowning and had that glassy look in your eyes. But we _can_ read your heart,” she tries to explain. “As for the rest, we learn as we go.”

“People used to come to us,” Tisi adds, almost wistfully. The little snake in her hair slithers down, and she kisses its face quickly before it pops back inside her thick curls. “Back in the glory days, people would travel from far-off lands to seek us out and tell us their woes and who wronged them. We’d sit in judgement, and then we would seek justice.”

“We can tell what’s in the hearts of humans,” Alec explains, “all their sins. But rage, jealousy, blood lust...we feel those the strongest.”

Ford quiets, and slowly the three Furies turn their stares towards him. “Do you…” he whispers, already regretting the question he’s about to ask. “Do you sense any of that in me?”

Meg gives an easy laugh, shaking her head hard enough that Ford sees a confused-looking snake try to grab hold of her braid for purchase. “Nah.” 

“No more so than everyone else, she means!” Tisi grins and spins about, edging nearer and nearer to Alec, who finally pushes her away with an eye roll. “Do you really think we’d be leading you to Dis if we thought you were a bad guy?”

“You could have been lying,” Ford replies with a soft shrug.

“Not our style, Stanford Pines,” Alec scowls. “We don’t trick people into eternal torment. Despite the wings and red eyes, we’re not the bad guys.” 

“No, I suppose you don’t have to trick people,” Ford relents. “Though who are the bad guys?”

“The monsters,” Meg says lightly. “So don’t stray from the path.” 

“Oh.” 

He falls silent once again, this time to watch Alec and Tisi out in front take turns grabbing each other's arms and flinging them up and down the path. Up ahead and to the left is the hellish glow of Tartarus, and to the right, where the path is currently winding, sits a sprawling, ancient-looking palace. 

“I have a confession to make,” he finally says, looking towards the grey sky for help.

The Furies all stop dead in their tracks. Megaera’s mouth hangs open slightly, while her sisters appear oddly enthused. 

“I...can skate,” he frowns, finally bringing his gaze down to look at each one of them. “I just haven’t done it in a while.”

Alec gasps. “That’s a terrible thing to keep from us. Sisters,” she says, nodding soberly to both Meg and Tisi, “we must remedy this.”

“Yes, I’m afraid we must,” Meg agrees, voice grave. Ford shudders. 

He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know from where, but the sisters produce an extra set of skates and helmet, all perfectly sized for Ford. “Six Fingered Fist of Fury!” cries Alec, shoving the helmet on his head. 

“Ladies--” he tries to interject, but it’s far, far too late. Meg pushes him onto his ass and grabs hold of one of his feet, pulling off his boot and tossing it away over her shoulder.

“Ford-a the Destroya!” she declares, pulling his other boot off and replacing it with a well-worn skate. 

“Skull Smashin’ Scholar!” Tisi giggles, who’s already lacing up a skate on the other foot. 

As soon as they finished their work, Ford is yanked back onto his feet and is pushed down the slightly-sloping path. Alec bolts forward and Tisi rolls up behind, clawed hands planting themselves firmly on his back. 

“Ladies,” Meg yells, skating figure eights along the path in front. “Let’s whip him!”

“Do what now?” 

Meg skirts past with a grin and grabs his arm once more. “Just keep moving forward, Stanford Pines,” she tells him. “Find the black door.” 

Ford wobbles and raises his hand to interject, but Meg lets out a loud, piercing whistle and she and Tisi begin to pick up the pace. He can feel Tisi’s hands dig in as she pushes, and Ford nearly topples before finding his balance. 

“Hold tight, you’re in for a ride!” Tisi laughs. She gives one more push and then lets go, giving Meg a chance to propel him forward when she stops and swings him out by his arm. He lets out a yelp but manages to stay on his feet as he zips down the path, getting one last burst of speed from Alec as she slingshots him by the arm.

“Bye, Ford! Come back and see us sometime!” she yells, cackling loudly. 

The Furies don’t follow him down the path, and when he’s slowed enough to be able to turn his head safely he sees three dark figures in the distance, all of them waving. 

“Thank you!” he shouts, though he doubts they can hear. 

Muscles that haven’t been used in a while begin to ache as he skates the rest of the way towards the palace. He knows he probably looks ridiculous, but he has to admit that he’s making _fantastic_ time. It only takes him about ten minutes to get to the palace gate, and he glides easily through without anything or anyone taking notice. 

The Palace of Dis has the same feeling as the rest of the underworld. It’s old, neglected, and feels like it’s been abandoned for centuries. There’s growth on the columns and the walls look as though they’d crumble if Ford even grazed them. Eventually the path into the palace becomes so overgrown that he has to take his skates and socks off to climb barefoot over the brush and rubble, though he flings the gift from the Furies over his shoulder for the inevitable long journey back. 

Find the black door -- the instruction echoes against the walls of his skull. Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Everything is a tarnished grey or sandy brown, so something like a black door in the midst of the ruins should stick out like a sore thumb. 

Speaking of sore body appendages, his feet are starting to feel the hard surface of the stone-paved ground he’s traversing. He pauses every so often to check on them, grimacing as the bloodied cracks in his skin continue to grow angrier with every step. He’s never done without shoes before, but prior experiences have taught him that there’s very little he can’t overcome. Sure, he’s wincing now, but maybe he’ll meet a demon later on who will pity him and gift him with some new boots. 

And how did the Furies put it? It’s all for love.

The cynical side of him had been dormant for quite some time, but he’d wanted to laugh when Meg first suggested it. Maybe the overarching reason he’d journeyed into the underworld was love, but as he picks thorns out of his sleeves and slips on trails of his own blood, it’s abundantly clear to him that he carries on like this for selfish reasons. Stan is happy as he is. The only reason he hasn’t turned around is because he can’t stand the thought of having to rebuild his relationship from the ground up.

It’s a salvage mission. Salvage Stanley’s brain, salvage the relationship that they have. Ford wonders what it says about him that he fears Stanley having to relearn their past so much that he’s willing to face the ancient Roman underworld on his own to avoid it. 

Finally he reaches the black door, which is not so much pure, carbon black as it is a faded, dark gray. Still, it’s obvious that this is the door the Furies were referring to, so he approaches and begins to look for a door handle. It’s fairly solid, unadorned, but Ford suspects there’s likely some hidden keyhole or handle or perhaps some kind of lever--

“Press the buzzer, please.” 

Ford practically jumps out of his skin. The door’s just spoken to him. 

“Uh...the buzzer?” He looks over his shoulder and then up towards the darkened windows on the higher levels. Was someone watching him? Where the hell were they? 

“The buzzer,” comes the voice again, this time sounding annoyed. “It looks like a buzzer.” 

“A buzzer,” Ford grunts, rolling his eyes at the voice in case they could see him. He presses his hands to the door and smooths his palms over the surface looking for this ancient ‘buzzer’, finally stumbling his way to the edge where a bunch of vines had crept up the jamb. He pulls at them, finding a small, black box with a speaker and a shiny, red button. 

A goddamn buzzer. 

Ford sighs and rings it, and about three seconds later the black door creaks and slowly swings open, clouds of dust puffing out from the darkened entrance. Even when shining a flashlight into the interior he can’t see past the thick veil of darkness, but he takes a deep breath and steps inside anyway.

Approximately three steps later he finds himself standing in a reception area of some kind of doctor’s office. Large tanks with brightly-colored tropical fish line two out of three of the walls, and on the third hangs a sign that reads _Dr. Hadrian Disanti_. There are two symmetrical lines of chairs and mahogany tables with stacks of magazines, and a large, metal desk at the back of the room. Ford quickly glances behind him; the black door and pathway back into the ruins has completely disappeared. 

“Do you have an appointment?”

He wheels around; there’s a woman at the desk. She peers out at him from behind a pair of stylish glasses and clears her throat in disapproval. 

“You’re getting blood on the carpet.” 

Ford looks down at the floor and sheepishly tries to step out of the bloody footprints he’s left on the white rug. “I’m sorry,” he says. He adjusts his glasses and attempts to carefully perch himself on one of the chairs before the woman quickly stands up. 

“You’ll get dirt on the seats!” 

“Ah -- sorry, sorry!” 

The receptionist grumbles and waves him forward, and Ford makes a hurried trudge towards the desk on tiptoes. “Do you have an appointment or not?”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, reading the sign again in confusion. “But...where am I?”

The receptionist sits down with a quiet grumble. “Which way did you come in?” 

“I-- what? Through the door.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, her well-managed bun staying perfectly in place. “ _Which_ door? We have a few entrances.”

“The black door?” 

“Ah.” She reaches across her desk and drags a dingy-looking rolodex closer to her. “We haven’t had someone come through that door in a while. Let’s see.” She flips through the cards for a while, then plucks one up from the rolodex and waves Ford away from the desk. He sits, awkwardly, and watches as she grabs the phone and dials. 

“Dr. Disanti? Mr. Pines is here to see you.” She pauses, listening. “Yes, sir. He’s come through the back door.” 

The receptionist sets the phone down and smiles politely Ford’s way, catching him trying to dab the blood off of his foot. The smile becomes tired. “Dr. Disanti will see you now.” She waves towards a door to her right and Ford hops up and hurries out of her sight, frankly wanting to avoid what’ll happen when that polite smile finally fades. 

Beyond the receptionist’s area is a large, sunlit room, with leather furniture and Renaissance paintings hanging on the walls. It’s far, far nicer than any place he’s been recently, but Ford is immediately drawn to the sight beyond the windows. 

“Is that--”

“New York City.” A cool chuckle greets Ford first, then out from a corner behind the door steps a well-dressed man with well-trimmed, somewhat pointy facial hair. There’s a book in his hands, his fingers marking his place before Ford had interrupted. “Mr. Pines, welcome. Please, sit.” 

Ford, still very much perplexed by everything, stays exactly where he is. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Disanti,” replies the man, “and you are my next appointment. Sit. Please.” 

The leather chair that Dr. Disanti points to does look inviting, so Ford nods and tiptoes the rest of the way to the seat. The man passes him a glass of water and a damp handkerchief, though Ford doesn’t actually see him pick them up from a table or any of the other usual places, and then takes a seat across from him. 

“Normally new clients have to wait months, even years to see me, but I made time to see you. Do you know why?”

“I’m not even sure who you are.” He finishes off the water and then begins to clean himself up, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the other man. He seems amused, but Ford’s not certain that’s a good thing. 

“Nonsense. You know who I am,” the man says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What you don’t know is why I’ve set myself in New York City as a psychologist. The answer, young man, is because I’m bored.” 

“Bored?” 

“Yes,” he says mournfully, “same as everyone else you’ve probably met. It isn’t very interesting being the ruler of the dead when your clientele’s been on a steady decline for a thousand years. First the Roman Empire takes a dive, then Jesus comes along and suddenly you hear the word ‘antiquity’ being thrown about whenever your realm is mentioned.”

Oddly enough, Ford is sympathetic to the displaced god. Hades, Pluto, Dis Pater...Dr. Disanti, he’s certainly had to make some adjustments over the years.

“May I ask...why psychologist? Why New York?” It’s bold and probably ill-mannered of him to question a god he’s just met, but there’s something about the deity that puts him at ease.

“Ever been to New York City? It’s a mess.” He chuckles deeply to himself and crosses one leg over the other. “An amusing mess. It’s an easy place to hide when you’re a god. Much easier than becoming a folk musician.” He shakes his head tiredly, obviously referencing something Ford doesn’t understand. 

“And as for psychologist...if I cannot rule over men’s souls, the least I can do is play with their heads. Mind you, I’m not a very good psychologist. I tend to make too many snap judgements and very rarely listen to my patients when they’re going on and on about piddling nonsense, but for the money they’ll never figure it out. No, no -- for what I charge? I’m a very _good_ psychologist. Oh, my brother was pissed I thought of it first, but let’s be honest, he’s had his fair share of mucking about with mankind, he might as well give somebody else a turn.”

“Might as well,” Ford agrees, laughing half-heartedly to not seem unsociable. He’s starting to feel his body tire now that he’s seated.

Ford takes a moment to just take in the decor of the strange, corner-window office. Despite the very Princeton-esque feel, all plush leather and dark, wooden furniture, there’s something very glitzy about the room. Artifacts studded with jewels and gems line the shelves, and the curtains look as lush and soft as the carpets feel underneath his mangled feet.

And the paintings. He recognizes the paintings on the wall, both by the artists themselves, famous Renaissance Masters, and the classical scenes depicted in them. He knows some are Roman legends, but spots Greek heroes and monsters in the mix. 

Disanti follows his gaze out of curiosity, looking over his shoulder and then back to Ford with an amused smirk. “I’m both,” he states simply. 

Ford understands what he means immediately, having surmised as much for himself when first encountering the deity's 21st century alias. “Both Hades and Dis Pater - Hadrian Disanti,” he murmurs, eyes still drawn in by the paintings. “And the Sumerian Gods? Egyptian? Celtic, Norse...”

“Different, but kin. In fact, if you stray too far from the path you came you’re likely to run into one of their realms.” Disanti picks a bit of imaginary dust off his jacket and flicks it away. “Each realm used to be immense. Endless. Back in the old days we could rule without worry of bumping elbows. It’s obviously not the case anymore.”

“You’re telling me that all mythological worlds connect?” Ford asks dryly. 

“Mythological is hardly the word,” Disanti retorts. “Myth implies you haven't seen it with your own two eyes. But yes, if you want to be so...unpoetic about it.” Disanti narrows his eyes and leans back against the overstuffed chair. “You didn’t answer my question from before. Do you know why I chose to see you?”

“I’m guessing it has something to do with the fact that I came the old-fashioned way.” 

“After a thousand years souls become dull and complacent. No one comes to see me. No one even tries to escape anymore, which used to bother me to no end but now almost seems like a charming way to pass an afternoon.” Disanti raises his hand in the air, ruby-studded rings sparkling as he waves his fingers. A carafe of red wine and a single glass appears floating in the space in front of the god. The wine pours and is then plucked from the air nonchalantly by Disanti, who waves it away for the moment. “I can’t remember the last time someone’s come to my office through the old palace. In fact, I thought it’d fallen over a long time ago. I didn’t realize it was still standing.”

“Do you not live there anymore?”

“Pina and I share a penthouse flat here in Manhattan,” Disanti replies, sipping his wine casually. “She likes New York in the spring, but we have a place in Tuscany for the cooler months. We no longer choose to winter underground.”

Ford takes all of this in with his typical cool demeanor, even though it was all absolute nonsense. He nods politely and looks out of the window as Disanti finishes his glass of wine, trying not to fall asleep in his incredibly comfortable chair. He’s come here on a mission, after all. 

“I’ve come to ask you for something,” he says finally, and Disanti begins to laugh. 

“Yes, I know.” He sets his ornate glass down and stares across the finely-woven Persian rug to meet Ford’s eyes. “You’ve come to plead your case for your brother.” 

When a look of surprise crosses Ford’s face Disanti chuckles and holds up his phone. “Charon sent me a text. He gets remarkably decent reception down there.” He pockets it once again and taps his empty glass with a ring to get the carafe to pour a refill. “You want him to drink from Mnemosyne, but you don’t want any of the godlike omniscience. Well, Mr. Pines, tell me why and perhaps I’ll consider it.” 

Ford settles further back into the chair. He doesn’t know what the god wants to hear and what would simply be superfluous information, so he decides to err on the side of simplification. “My brother, Stanley, sacrificed his mind to save us all from a demon named Bill Cipher.”

Disanti’s entire mouthful of wine nearly comes back out in an undignified sputter. “Cipher? Really?” He looks utterly aghast, pale complexion somehow even more gaunt. “Why didn’t I hear about this before?”

“The entire episode existed in a kind of protective vacuum of weirdness,” Ford explains. “You likely wouldn’t have heard of it.” 

“A protective vacuum of weirdness.” Disanti squints as he repeats this. His disbelief makes his face look like he’s sucked on a tarter-than-average lemon. 

“Yes…” Ford returns the lemon-squint with a sincere nod. “There’s this town in Oregon where anomalies and other assorted weirdness--”

“You know what? I’m going to stop you right there.” He’s dropped his hand onto the arm of the chair to tap impatiently. “So in order to stop Cipher, your brother let him enter his mind?” 

Disanti stops drinking altogether. He suddenly springs up to his feet, walking to his bookshelves and pacing with his hands brushing along their spines. “If I recall that’s how it works, anyway. That little bastard...he’s always been a nuisance. The ancients loved to invoke his name, but he never stayed long enough to do anything more than break the bodies of those he overtook. I think he tried to enter my brother’s mind once. Can you imagine what kind of disaster that might have been? Bah, the ego of that little triangle. Are you telling me you got rid of him?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes. But my brother--”

“Mind eradicated in an effort to rid Cipher from this plane of existence.” He stops moving about, calming and collecting himself once again. Ford surmises that he likely isn’t one for surprises, and news of Bill is a _big_ one. He keeps his back to him for a while, hunched over as though he’s looking at something, and when he turns back to Ford there’s a look of profound pity on his face. “Now that is tragic.”

“I thought it was alright, at first,” Ford murmurs. He’ll take the pity if it might lead to sympathy for his recovery mission. “My family and I managed to bring him back after, but recently all of his memories have left him completely.” 

“To be frank...” Disanti rolls his hands over each other, apparently searching for the right word. “His mind is probably like a stretched out t-shirt at this point.”

Out of all the things the god could have said, Ford has not been expecting _that_. It must be obvious to the deity too, who comes to stand beside his chair. 

“Stanford,” Disanti says gravely. “His mind can’t retain anything anymore. Picture a shirt that has been stretched and worn. When you managed to bring him back the first time it was as though you put that shirt into a dryer. It may appear like it shrunk back to its normal size, but in reality, it was just going to lose its shape even faster the next it was used. Cipher tangles himself in the mind, spreading himself through every piece of information, every instance of thought and memory. If you erased Cipher, then you erased everything. And at your age….”

“That’s enough.” Ford feels like he’s just spent the last hour eating sand, his mouth has gone so dry. He’d suspected that this might be the case, but it hurts to hear it confirmed by somebody else. And now, of course, only one thing matters. “Could Mnemosyne still fix his mind?”

“I can’t promise that it will.”

That kind of noncommittal answer is not what Ford wants to hear at the moment. He drops his face into his hands and forces himself to exhale, breath shaky and rough, rocking imperceptibly to hold back the intense urge to have a mental break right there and then in the personal office of Hades, Lord of the Underworld. He feels a hand on his shoulder, an oddly comforting gesture, and looks up to see not Disanti but a kindly-looking woman staring back down at him with a smile. Startled, Ford jerks upright, but Disanti is back in his chair, gazing across the room with equal parts humility and adoration. 

The room just feels warmer, and much to his surprise the aches in his joints start to subside. 

“Calm yourself,” the woman murmurs. Her voice drifts softly across the room, like a gentle breeze. “When you leave this office, retrace your steps back to the marsh.” 

She takes Ford’s hand in hers, his skin tingling from the contact, and slips an empty, glass vial into his palm. “Take this. Fill it with the water of Mnemosyne, and have your brother drink. He will not need to be by the banks for it to work. This is my word to you.”

Ford shakes his head, overwhelmed by the gentleness in her voice. She makes him want to sob, openly and without restraint, and he can’t understand why. Her face is familiar, like someone beloved, and yet she’s a stranger too, radiating enough power that he feels like he should fear her. She reaches for him once more and takes his head gently into her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Who are you?” he whispers.

“I have many names,” she replies, the kindness of her smile forcing his breath to catch in his throat. “Libera, Persephone, Kore, Proserpina, and more ancient ones than those.”

“Why are you…” Being so kind? Making an exception? Why all this for him?

“Stanford,” she murmurs, clicking her tongue. “It's time to let go of your guilt. Be rid of it like you were rid of all that bitterness and anger. I know you can do it. Be happy. Do you even know how?”

“Happy?” It’s a preposterous thought, isn't it? He thought he was happy at many different points in his life -- no. Not happy. Content. Weren't they the same thing?

“Happy,” she repeats softly, but as she speaks it feels like something has pierced his chest. The air around him gets cooler, damper, and laced with salt like he was back on the Stan O’ War. The office dims, a cloud passing over the sunlight streaming through the windows perhaps, but before he could dismiss it entirely he feels sand between his toes. “Stanford, do you remember the beach?” 

It’s not a place she’s trying to evoke, but a memory. He knows it instantly.

“Do you remember that day, when you held his hand? That moment when you found your courage, what did it feel like?”

Unable to hold off any longer, he begins to openly weep. Long streams of tears pour down his face, his shoulders shaking as it all bursts from him like a dam. The beach, the goddamn beach. The sand, the moonlight, those few seconds of joy before reality came back to the both of them.

“He didn't want it. We both shouldn't have -- I shouldn't have kissed him.” He’d been young and heartsick, and Stanley had been sweet in his rejection. He never spoke a word of it, just continued on being Ford’s best friend until the day Ford broke his heart. 

“He made me happy, even after,” he whispers hoarsely. “He never stopped being the person I needed him to be. I want to be that happy again. It’s just so hard.”

She shushes him and gently wipes the tears from his cheeks. He notices that the beach is gone, the room back the way it’d been only a minute ago. “I know it is, I know. You carry so much fear too. Fear for yourself, for the future.”

“I hurt him,” he confesses suddenly. “I kept hurting him. I’m not a good person.” He wants to avert his eyes, but she keeps him steady.

“Maybe you weren’t a good person, but there’s always time to change. The guilt you carry is paralyzing you. You’re so smart, you know what you should do.” She smiles sweetly and dabs a few more tears from the corners of his eyes. “I see it, the cycle of hurt and anger. Enough of that, I’m telling you that it’s time to heal. Don’t you realize your time is already so short on this planet?”

Ford shakes his head and the woman removes his glasses, cleaning them on her long dress. They leave a dark stain on the white cloth, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “If I can’t get him back, what will I do?” he asks quietly, still shaking in his seat. 

She brushes his face again as she returns the glasses to his face. “Easy there, easy. You’ll figure it out.” She pulls him forward and places her lips to his forehead, and suddenly he’s calmed. “Now, let me get you some shoes. You have a long way ahead of you.” 

She pulls back and waves her hand, and Ford feels the changes immediately. There on his feet are his boots, tied and ready to go, and underneath he can feel that his wounds are bandaged and his cracked skin salved. “Thank you,” he murmurs, but the woman is already halfway across the room. She sits herself on top of Disanti’s lap and smiles. 

“Thank you for fetching me,” Ford hears her murmur before gently placing a kiss to Disanti’s cheek. 

“You’re far better at this than I am, Pina,” he laughs, looping his arms around her tenderly.

“I always have been, dear.” She playfully bat his arm and Ford respectfully averts his gaze.

As he stands there feeling oddly refreshed, like he’s just woken up from full night’s rest, he rubs his hands together to rid himself from the odd, tingling sensation. The warmth from before is still there though, and there seems to be an unnatural light shining into the room now. He inhales deeply and leaves the two gods to their intimate moment together. 

The reception area seems even more surreal now that he’s actually spoken with Dis Pater. He pauses at the desk, just for a moment, but it’s a moment too long for the woman behind it. There’s a rustle of glossy pages and a long-suffering sigh before she decides to speak to him. 

“Same door you came in.”

She doesn’t even look up from her magazine. 

“Thank you,” he tells her, her response a sharp turn of the page. Apparently that was all the conversation he was getting out of her today. 

True to the stories, finding his way back proves more difficult than finding his way in. Ford leaves the New York offices and the crumbling ancient palace without event, and he even gets a decent way up the path before things become a little hazy. He considers putting on the roller skates from the Furies, which naturally he kept through the encounter with Dis Pater and Proserpina, but he just thinks it’ll make him go nowhere faster. Besides the path just doesn’t look right anymore; the scenery is all-around alien to him. 

He doubles back twice, retracing his steps and then following down a different path. There’s a tall hill up ahead, and he believes that if he can just reach the top then he’ll be able to figure out the right direction to head. Instead he veers, winding up momentarily lost in a pine-laden forest before the hill disappears completely from sight. He pushes through, eventually finding himself in an area of low, rocky cliffs.

This is not a good place. The cliffs may be low, but the path cuts directly through them and it twists and turns in sharp angles. He can’t see around the bends, or even hear much of his surroundings past the turns. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. 

Ford takes precautions. Gun in hand, he walks slowly through the cavernous region, thinking that it’s just better at this point to move forward than have to head all the way back. Surely the rivers were just beyond this.

After a while, when nothing at all happens and his worry starts to seem silly, Ford lowers his gun and continues on with his guard significantly lowered. He thinks he hears the sound of rushing water -- Styx, hopefully, and maybe Charon. He thinks about seeing Stanley after everything he’s encountered in the underworld. He pictures sitting him down, and the look on Stanley’s face when he tells him that it doesn’t matter if the water of the Mnemosyne works or if he doesn’t even want to try to drink it. He wants to be happy. He wants to be happy with _him_ , traveling the world with his best friend by his side. 

Ford doesn’t realize anything is amiss with his surroundings until he steps on the pile of bones, the strong snap underfoot quickly jolting him out of his own head. He balks and reaches for his gun, quickly ducking out of the way as a large, cat-like creature dives out from one of the cliffs and lands practically at his feet. 

It’s absolutely huge, and Ford quickly backs away until his back is flush with the cliff face. As he gets a good look -- body of an enormous lion, two feathered wings that were raised menacingly, the head of a young woman -- he realizes that he knows this creature very well. The Sphinx. 

One of its massive paws steps forward and the youthful face grins hungrily. “Well, well, well. Look who we have here, a traveler.”

Ford almost immediately lowers his gun. The Sphinx would only harm him if he couldn’t answer her riddle, and there hadn’t been a riddle invented yet that Stanford Pines didn’t know. But even if it’s a new riddle - and he sincerely doubts that it is - Ford knows the answer to this one. 

“The answer,” he says, squaring his shoulders with authority, “is man.” 

“Huh?” The Sphinx sits on her haunches and brings a paw to her face to rub in bewilderment. “No, no, that’s the old one. I’ve got a new one.” She grins and Ford swears under his breath. “Yeah, sucks for you. Everyone knew the last one. Ready? Cuz if you don’t get it, I’m going to eat you.”

Ford is still fairly confident in his abilities despite the initial setback. He nods firmly. “Do your worst.”

“Right,” the Sphinx says. She lies on her belly and clears her throat. “What’s black and white and red all over?”

“Oh, easy!” He laughs and shakes his head. What, did this mythical beast really think he was _that_ stupid? “The answer, of course, is…” 

“Yeah?” the Sphinx grins, eagerly awaiting his response. 

“It’s so easy, it’s...uh....”

The grin on the face of the beast grows even wider. She stands and begins to edge nearer to him. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you answer?”

“Because...well, because it’s _so_ easy, it’s…” 

Fuck. Fuck fuck _motherfuck_! It was one of Stanley’s lame joke riddles, and now he can’t even remember the punchline when his life is on the line. He laughs nervously and begins to edge towards the bend in the cliff. The Sphinx follows, head cocked and ravenous smile broad.

“You don’t know. Oh, I’m going to enjoy devouring you!” 

“No, wait! I know it! It’s--”

“Time’s up!” she growls, body lowering to the ground and wings tucking against her body. She wriggles ever-so-slightly, pupils dilating and mouth widening to show off a huge set of sharp teeth. Ford’s hand goes to his gun, and in the split second that she finally pounces comes a loud cry from above. 

“A NEWSPAPER!” 

The Sphinx’s head crashes hard into the ground as a large, bulky mass jumps from above and lands directly on top of it, causing a cloud of dust to puff up from the ground. Stanley Pines, in a very Stanley Pines move, delivers one more final punch to its face and then hops onto the ground, rushing to Ford to take firm hold of his arm.

“Stanley!” Ford cries. He’s beyond gobsmacked, and he moves quickly between wanting to kiss the life out of him and sheer bewilderment that he’s even found him in the first place. “I can’t believe -- how did you --” 

“No talking, just moving,” Stanley says, already wheezing hard as he yanks Ford around the corner and then far, far away from the dazed creature. 

Ford picks up the pace and starts doing most of the hurrying for the both of them, finally letting up and giving them a rest when the Sphinx is far, far behind them. Stanley all but crumbles against a wall, doubling over and holding his side as he catches his breath. 

“Think I pulled something…” he grunts. 

“Stanley,” Ford breaths. He stands in front of him, hands on his shoulders, marveling for a moment at this ridiculous human being; this _remarkable_ human being. “Stanley, why did you change your mind?”

Stanley rights himself and shakes his head, like he can’t believe the question. “Jesus, Ford,” he murmurs, shoving his hands off his shoulders, “you’ve been missing for a whole goddamn week!” 


	12. Lethe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for my beta, wannabeagrunklefan @ tumblr, who is my personal Leslie Knope. Everyone should be so lucky.
> 
> And thank you, everyone, for all the comments and positive feedback. If I haven't responded to you, know that I read every comment, every tag, every bookmark, and I'm so appreciative. Your enthusiasm and kind words keeps my cave underneath the bridge warm through the harsh winters.

“A week?”

The words echo off the high walls of the canyon. Stanley cringes and grabs his brother, covering his mouth with his calloused hand to shush him. “That thing is probably still following us,” he hisses, letting Ford go before he has the chance to push him off. 

Ford shoots him a small, annoyed stare before continuing his train of thought. He needs to work through the shock of Stanley’s sudden appearance and subsequent news with a bit of logic. “Are you certain it’s been an entire week? It doesn’t seem possible…” Ford wipes his brow, pausing when he thinks he hears a scream of rage in the distance. “Well, it could be possible that time moves more slowly here.

“How long do you think it’s been?” 

“A day, maybe. It doesn’t feel like I’ve been wandering that long.” 

“Yeah? Probably explains why I didn’t find a skeleton with nerdy glasses when I came down here.”

Ford does recall the heaviness of his limbs, the way the atmosphere of this place seemed to hit him like a freight train as soon as he crossed the banks of Styx. “It’s likely one the reasons traveling to the underworld has always been so treacherous to mortals,” he surmises. “Losing track of time can be just as deadly as any monster.”

“I ‘unno, Sixer,” Stanley grunts. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards the path behind them. “That thing back there looked like it was about to rip your head off.”

“That _thing_ is the mythological Sphinx, Stanley.” 

“I know what a Sphinx is, you dickhead.” Stanley looks about as annoyed as any one person could be, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at Ford. He glances behind them and frowns. “Did you hear that yell?”

“Yes, it’s probably following our trail. If we can find Charon then we should be safe.” 

“Charon?”

“Yes, Charon. Wasn’t that how you crossed Styx?”

“Oh, yeah, I know him. Real class act - great taste in music. Convinced me to grow a beard actually. No, no, I mean, why are you going back to Charon?”

Ford’s whole body seems to jerk in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you found that river yet? I mean, it’s been a week, so I hope it hasn’t taken you that long, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt any kind of spiritual journey you were on. You were so obsessed with the damn thing before you left.” 

The noise that escapes him is more a screech than a laugh, a rough mix of the ball of anxiety in his stomach breaking loose and sheer disbelief. “Wait,” he says, voice cracking embarrassingly, “do you actually want me to find the river?” 

“You seemed so hell-bent on it, is all,” Stanley tells him simply, bravely ignoring that his brother has turned into some kind of sputtering ferret. “Where do we go? Do you have directions or something?”

“Directions? I don’t even know why you’ve come!” He manages a real laugh this time, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Why is Stanley even down here? How did he even find him? 

“I had to.” Stanley seems a little impatient with him, still occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure the beast isn't steps away from pouncing. “When you didn’t come back that first night I went out looking for you. I looked everywhere too. I filed a report with the Polizia -- hey! Don’t give me that look! You made me do it. You’d been missing for five days, what was I supposed to do?”

Ford touches his own cheek, unaware that he was even making a face. “Doesn’t matter,” Stanley continues, “they couldn’t find you. There are whole teams of people scouring the country and dredging the lake, and they haven’t found a damn thing. It wasn’t until I found your map that I realized you might’ve willingly walked into a dark hole.”

Ford looks at the scenery around them and smirks. “Well,” he nods, “you were close.”

“Yeah, I was. Dumb-dumb here figured it all out from your notes.”

“Stanley,” Ford frowns. “You’re not…”

“Don’t pad my ego, I’m fine with it. Stanley Pines, idiot brother of Stanford Pines.” He sighs, but then raises his finger and points to Ford with a wide grin. “But hey, I found you, and just in time too.” 

“It’s _amazing_ that you found me,” Ford counters, “absolutely amazing. You shouldn’t be so harsh on yourself. You’re more clever than you let yourself believe.”

His brother scoffs in response, and guilt washes through him. He wants so badly for his sincerity to be heard, but it doesn’t seem like Stanley is willing to pay him much mind. “It wasn’t anything. The spookier things got in that tunnel, the more I was convinced you came this way. Then I met Charon - who thought I was you by the way, hilarious - and that’s how I got here. So, where next? We should be by the river still, so if we follow it-” 

“Wait,” Ford blurts out suddenly, practically diving for Stanley’s arm. He finds his grip and holds fast, hoping to keep him from taking one more confusing step forward. “Please.” 

He thought he’d have to forcibly drag Stanley down into the underworld, or at the very least have a long, serious talk with him when he got back to the surface about his memories and how to move forward. But here his brother was, having wandered into the underworld in search of him all on his own. When did he have a change of heart? “Wait. Please. I’m so…”

_Confused._

“Ford, can’t we walk and talk? There’s a monster behind us...”

“No, it’s okay, I just…” He knows full well that he’s sounding a little desperate now, but Stanley at least stops tugging back. “I just need you to clarify for me...do you want to try to drink from the river? What changed your mind?”

“Like I said, you were gone for a week.” 

“That doesn’t explain why you want your memories back.”

“Okay, okay! If I'd known you were going to be such a pain in the ass I would have left you down here.” He brings a hand up to his head and scratches, almost unsure of himself. “If you really have to know, after a day of you being gone I...started poking around the boat. I found some things.”

Ford’s stomach drops down to his feet. His mouth goes dry as he begins to take inventory of all the things he stashed away from Stanley’s prying eyes over the last few weeks. “What kind of things?”

“The things you hid from me.”

“The...uh...things I hid?”

He knows how hollow it sounds. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to save face -- maybe because he assumes Stanley would take that kind of attempt to spare his feelings poorly, or perhaps it’s because he didn’t expect to be called out. 

“Yeah,” Stanley replies, breezing right by Ford’s struggle to play dumb. “The pictures, the scrapbooks; I found it all.” 

“Ah. Ah...right. About that--”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I don’t?”

“No, Sixer. You don’t.” 

Stanley drags a foot in the sandy dirt, focusing on the lines he traces with his toe intently before smiling. Ford’s so taken aback to see the change in his demeanor that he actually steps away. Was he going to hit him? The calm expression on his face is almost eerie. 

“You know, I was convinced that I didn’t want those memories. I was pretty sure that I was happier without ‘em. Reading all those things about my life - I couldn’t imagine that I’d be any happier remembering all the crooked things I’ve done. Plus I was pissed off at you, so part of it was sheer spite. Stubbornness too. Fuck, I’m stubborn. You too, I mean clearly, look at where we are right now.”

“But you digress.” 

Stanley laughs, and for the life of him Ford can’t decide if he’s finally gone mad from the memory loss or if it’s something simpler than that. Unbridled clarity, perhaps. 

“But looking at those pictures, of us and those kids…and that hamster-man and the teenage lumberjack...” Stanley continues, still oddly cheerful, “I look happy. Really happy. You can’t fake that kind of happiness. And those scrapbooks -- that summer, those kids! God, those kids. They’re really something, aren’t they? They’re really, really something...they love me, don’t they? And I must really love them.”

Ford is flabbergasted, but pleased. Cautiously so. He nods very slowly. “They do, Stanley. They really do.”

“And you love me,” Stanley adds, “don’t you?”

Ford inhales, but before he’s able to react Stanley puts his broad hands on his shoulders. “You decided to go walking through hell for me. Literally, you went through hell and back. So I thought,” he murmurs, unashamedly meeting Ford’s gaze, “if those kids could love a guy like me, if _you_ could love a guy like me, then maybe it’s all worth a little hurt. That’s just life, isn’t it? Happiness mixed with a little hurt now and again.”

He melts, letting Stanley’s grip keep him from becoming a sentimental puddle of goo on the ground. “How?” he whispers. “I still don’t understand.” 

“Aw, Sixer.” He grins and leans in, touching their foreheads together. Ford can feel a low rumble in his chest as he chuckles. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” he breathes, legs and arms quaking. “God, I do.” 

“Good. Me too.” Stan pushes their noses together, their glasses clinking awkwardly between them. “Maybe I loved you before all of this, or maybe I just now fell in love with you. I don’t know. But I think we should try to get my memories back. And if it works and I don’t feel the same as I do right now...we’ll go back to the boat and we’ll...talk, I guess. Sounds like a plan?”

Talking doesn’t sound particularly appetizing, but Ford agrees to it. He’d just about agree to anything at the moment. “Yes. Sounds like a plan. But if it doesn’t work?” 

“I don’t know. You’re smart though. We’ll figure something out.” He smirks and gently pushes Ford away, quickly glancing over his shoulder once more. “That thing is definitely still following us.” 

“Yes, it mostly certainly is,” Ford says, successfully hiding the quiver in his voice. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Heh. Hell.”  
_________________________________

Ford still thinks he hears the steady sound of a river gurgling, and so Stan follows blindly, letting him lead them through the cavernous region by distant echoes. The path twists and dips in places but Ford pushes on, convinced that soon there’d be a break in the high, rocky walls so long as they continue to follow the river.

“I see the light of the dock. Charon will take us the rest of the way.” 

Ford’s confidence is reassuring, definitely a good thing to have when you’re in trouble, and though Stan hates the thought of casting doubt on it he squints at the mention of a dock. “What are you talking about? I don't see a dock.”

“I thought you were the one with the better eyesight.”

“Maybe fifty years ago, pal. You’re seeing things.” 

Ford motions down the path. “It’s just up ahead, see?”

“No, it’s not. I see _lights_ though.”

Ford sighs but Stan knows he’s right; it’s not light from the ferryman up ahead. It seems like the sky is dimming with each step, darkness lapping at their heels. They both pause at the same time; the disappearance of the sky had been so gradual that neither of them noticed until it was gone. The light that was just up ahead is now a thousand lights, all of them flickering in the endless blackness like little stars. 

For a second Stan almost believes they’ve walked out of the underworld and right into the night sky. 

It doesn’t take long for the both of them to realize they’ve walked onto some kind of hidden path. Instead of dirt beneath their feet there are cobblestones, and a damp chill in the air drifts over their heads, indicating they're underground somehow. And the little lights, the thousands of flickering stars, are in fact candles - wax dripping down from the jagged walls and pooling into the stones at their feet. 

Stan plucks a flashlight out from his pocket and shines it on the tunnel walls, jumping when a grinning skull stares back out at them from the masonry. 

The place is littered with skulls, some of them actually holding the candles like grim, little jack-o-lanterns. 

“Wrong way,” Stan declares. “Turn around?”

“Fantastic idea.” Ford spins around on his heels, but immediately groans in reaction to whatever he sees.

The way they came has disappeared. There’s only more of the same -- grinning skulls, twinkling candles, and an endless path of darkness.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Ford mutters. 

Stan shines the flashlight back down the tunnel. “I guess the only way out is through, huh?” 

For all the ominous darkness the tunnel isn’t that long. The claustrophobic feeling quickly begins to lessen as the walls and ceiling expand out and up around them, candles disappearing as the natural light begins to return. Stan even turns off the flashlight as an orange glow signifying the end of the path begins to illuminate their steps.

The tunnel however, for all of its improvements, doesn’t become less horrifying. There’s a din up ahead, growing louder with every step towards the end of the path. It’s an ungodly noise, unidentifiable and horrifying. Stan brings a hand to his ear and knocks at his own skull; Ford gnashes his teeth and grimaces beside him.

The din turns into a jumble of screeches as the orange glow gets brighter and brighter, and then without warning, the path drops off. Ford nearly walks right off of the cliff, Stan grabbing the back of his jacket to keep him from tumbling over. They both cry out, but they’re muffled by the noise of a thousand screams and the roar of a giant river of fire.

Stan pulls Ford back to relative safety, thumping against the cliff wall and gripping it for dear life, eyes wide as he continues to stare into the abyss below. 

“Ford…” he says, practically whimpering. 

“Oh fuck, oh...oh no...” 

Ford moves out of Stan’s grip and walks carefully towards the edge of the cliff. Just beyond the river sit high, dilapidated castle walls, their iron turrets overgrown with black vines and spiny thorns, and a hideous monster with a hundred heads paces around an intimidating, spiked gate. It doesn’t seem to notice them, but its heads open their black jaws and let out a screech that rattles the ground beneath their feet. 

Stan carefully moves away from the wall, arm extended out to try and grab Ford again to bring him back to him. 

“Tartarus,” Ford finally says, taking a step back and letting Stan draw him closer to the tunnel again. “It’s the City of the Damned, where the sinners are sent for their eternal punishment. I thought….I didn’t realize we’d gotten so lost…”

“We’re not going in there, are we?” 

Ford lets out an incredulous laugh. “What? No, Stanley. No, we’re getting the fuck out of here.” 

“Oh.” He eases his death-grip on the wall, somewhat relieved that the next leg of their journey wouldn’t pit them up against a real life hellbeast. “That’s a relief.” 

“Yes. We’ll just turn around. Let’s not even deal with….huh.” 

Ford scratches his chin, gaze locked on something in the distance. Stan immediately frowns. 

“What.”

“Well...Lethe is just there.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s not far. I can see it.”

“Okay. And?”

“If we can climb down and skirt along the river, we’ll get to Lethe in no time.”

“What river? You mean the literal _river of fire_?” 

“Well, yes, but we wouldn’t have to cross it. We’d just have to follow it.” 

“Ford! Ford.” Stan takes a step forward and gestures towards the scene below. “River. Of. Fire. Hellbeast. No. No, we’re turning around. Come on.” 

“Stanley, we’re lost. If we head back the way we came we could be wandering this place for years.”

“So? Better than getting torn apart by a giant monster with fifty heads.”

“Actually, it’s probably closer to a hundred…”

Stan groans and sinks back against the base of the cliff. “You can’t be serious. You can’t.”

It’s like talking to a plant - Ford clearly isn’t listening to a word he’s saying. In fact he begins to pace the small area as if he doesn’t hear Stan’s very valid complaints, occasionally stopping to look down the cliff and drawing in the dirt using his finger. “We can do this,” he says finally, almost smiling. “The more I think about it, the more I think this is our best option.”

“Nope,” Stan mutters, arms crossed firmly over his chest. “Leave me here. I can build a life on this cliff. I’ve got plenty of candles to eat.”

Ford smirks and punches his arm. “Come on, Stanley. We can do this.”

Stan takes a long moment to stare out at the high walls and listen to the screams of agony from those tormented souls trapped inside. 

“You can do it, maybe,” he declares. “You’ve got abs still.”

“Stanley, listen to me.” His hand is on his shoulder. Stan feels his stomach twist into knots. “You’ve done some amazing things since we started out on our adventure together. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. You can do this, Stanley.” Ford waves dismissively towards the ledge. “This is nothing.” 

If it’s Ford’s strategy to flatter Stan into doing something stupid, it kind of works. Stan starts to feel his resolve slip. “Okay,” he relents. “Fine. I’ll climb the death wall.”

“Yes! Good, good. Okay.” Ford bounces excitedly and pulls his brother back up, pointing to a narrow, winding path that leads down towards the river. “See that?”

“Yes? And by yes I mean, no, as that is not an actual path. That’s a ledge. A tiny ledge.”

“We’ll be okay.” 

“Will we though?” 

“We’ll just have to take it slow.”

He’s not entirely convinced, and even less so when Ford points at the section of the river that crosses in front of the hellbeast. “We...uh...do have to pass by that area though.” 

“And what are the odds that we won’t attract the monster? Which I assume exists on a diet of stupid humans that get too close.” 

“Not great, I’ll admit,” Ford mutters. “But, I think I know a way to buy us time. You have to trust me though.”

As he says this, Ford’s eyes drift to his feet, almost as though he’s embarrassed by the request. Stan cocks his head in confusion, and he punches Ford’s arm with an easy smile. “I trust you, Sixer. Of course I do. Let’s do it.” 

Ford smiles earnestly. “Okay,” he says, exhaling in something like relief. “Let’s get going.”

Stan does alright creeping along the ledge. It’s not the height that frightens him - for whatever reason heights in general do nothing for him - it’s the constant sound of the screams in the distance and the heat of the fire below that makes his head spin from sheer terror. He keeps a tight hold on Ford’s arm as they scoot along, both of them nearly losing their balance a couple of times and wobbling dangerously towards the drop behind them. They manage to save each other though, each time laughing nervously as the other regains their footing on the ledge. 

“Don’t let go,” Stan tells Ford after he’d nearly fallen again. He guides his hand to his waist, making him hook his fingers through a belt loop. 

“Never,” Ford says, and Stan can’t help but chuckle. 

“You’ll never let go?”

“Uh...yes? What?” He frowns. “Why is that funny?”

“Nevermind, just keep moving. If we make it out of here alive I have a list of movies you need to see.” 

“You remember pop culture, but you can’t remember our birthday.” 

Ford shakes his head and grumbles his way down the rest of the cliff face, which much to Stan’s own bewilderment helps him take his mind off of the sea of despair behind them. In fact, he continues to tease Ford about the things he does remember - how to drive a car, how to forge important documents, the plot of the entire Police Academy franchise - until they reach the bottom of the ledge. He hops off the last foot and looks around in astonishment. 

“So, we didn’t die. That’s surprising.” 

“Not here anyway.” 

Stan visibly flinches when Ford pulls out his gun from his jacket. “You’re not gonna try to kill it, are you?”

“No, no,” Ford reassures him, powering the weapon on with a soft ‘click’. “Well. Not trying to, no.” 

“Not trying -- Ford.” 

“Listen, Stanley.” Ford puts his hand on Stan’s back and begins to guide him in the direction of the monster. “Do you see that bit of rock hanging over our heads? If we get the hydra to cross the river, then I can knock the rocks onto it with the gun, giving us ample enough time to run.”

“This is probably not one of your best plans.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Stan sucks in his breath. “Well…

“That’s a ‘no.’ Be ready to run.”

Having to draw the attention of the beast in order to eventually escape it doesn’t seem like the brightest way to do things, but Ford doesn’t exactly give Stan ample time to think about it. He fires the weapon once -- right into the monster’s stomach, which makes every single head jerk upright and look around wildly for the culprit. Naturally it doesn’t take long for one of the heads to spot them, and a pair of black, leathery wings unfurl out behind the hydra as it readies itself to give chase. 

Ford screams for Stan to run, and he does, but not before grabbing Ford’s wrist to move him along as well. Stan’s sure he can aim with one hand, what he’s not so sure of Ford’s sense of self-preservation. They scurry as best they can, but their four old legs can't compare to a giant wingspan. The hydra lands and screeches with rage, the impact of the beast making the ground beneath their feet leap up at them. They fall, and Stan watches as Ford saves himself with an impressive-looking somersault while his own head and body scrape along the rocky ground. 

Feeling broken in all kinds of different places, Stan rolls onto his back with a low groan. Something feels like it’s punched into his chest, but he’s too distracted by the sights and sounds of the monster moving towards them. The earth shakes with each heavy step it takes - it vibrates up into Stan’s body and jostles about whatever’s already shattered inside of him. The beast roars again, and then there’s a moment where Stan doesn’t hear anything at all, save for the whir coming from Ford’s gun. 

“Stanford Pines, what are you doing!”

Stan raises his head from the dust, coughing and tasting metal on his tongue. His eyes cross in search of the interloper, and he spots a figure rushing to the side of the enormous monster.

“Leave my baby be, Stanford! I thought you were better than that.”

“Ford?” he hacks, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The monster lurches forward and Stan tries to scramble back, just nearly missing all one hundred heads as they flop themselves onto the ground. The beast groans -- then makes a sound that would sound downright adorable were it not for the razor-sharp teeth. _It begins to purr_. 

“Tisi, I'm sorry, I didn't realize…” he hears his brother say, the whir of his gun dying down quickly. “We were just trying to pass.”

“What are you even still doing here? You should have been long gone by now.” 

Stan pulls himself up to his feet, but god, something’s really not right in this old body of his. He limps forward, stepping over one of the contended heads, trying to see who the hell was chatting with Ford. Trust his brother to make friends with one of the locals. 

He spies the woman who had interrupted standing next to the massive body of the beast, her arms raking sharp nails over its belly, wings tucking themselves back behind her. Stan thinks she’s fairly horrifying herself, but it’d be a lot worse if she wasn’t wearing those ridiculous clothes and a pair of rollerskates. She turns her head and her eyes glow at the sight of him. 

“That must be your brother. Geez, Stanford, I guess that cuts your effort in half, huh?” She grins a little wicked smile and Stan sees pointed teeth in her mouth. He shudders. 

Ford nods and gestures between them. “Stan, this is Tisi. Tisi, my brother.” 

“Charmed,” Stan grunts. He feels the urge to cough but holds it back. He doesn’t want to see what he might hack up. 

The woman in rollerskates keeps her eyes fixed firmly on Stan, and she leaves the hydra to casually skate towards him. “Oh no, I’m the one who’s charmed. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Well, that isn’t entirely accurate,” Ford says, but quiets himself when Tisi turns around to hiss at him. 

“No talking, Stanford! You nearly tried to kill my pet. I should let him eat you.” She skids to a stop in front of Stan, still grinning something fierce. “But that would make Stan here sad. Stanley Pines…” 

He manages to hold very, very still as she brings her hand up to caress his face, her long claws just grazing his cheek. 

“I like you very much, Stanley,” she whispers, tracing a finger down his neck. He shivers; one bad move and she could slice open his jugular. He doesn’t doubt that she’s considering it at the moment, despite her supposed ‘friendship’ with his brother. “And your brother too, but don’t tell him. His ego couldn’t take it.” 

A soft chuckle escapes Stan’s lips, but it seems to please the little monster-woman. She joins him in a laugh and then skates back, humming to herself. 

“But seriously, Stanford, what are you doing out here?” 

“What are you doing here, Tisi? I thought you had a...match.” 

“Bout,” she tells him, and Stan nearly chokes at the look on Ford’s face. It kind of funny to see a know-it-all corrected by a monster wearing bubblegum-pink skates. “And we did. We won, by the way, but that shouldn’t be a surprise. As for what _I’m_ doing here -- I work here, Stanford. I guard the gate to Tartarus. I thought you of all people would know that, smartypants. So my question still stands, what are you doing here? What happened?”

“We got lost,” Ford explains. Stan notices that he’s wisely put his gun away. “Took a wrong turn somewhere. I was hoping we could just follow the river up to Lethe.” 

“He means the river of flames,” Stan grunts. There’s that urge to cough again, and this time he can’t hide it. He turns so that he can hack into his sleeve without Ford seeing. 

The little monster puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, a little snake unspooling itself from underneath her helmet. “Disappointing!” she cries. “Meg thought you’d be back by now. Well, she owes me and Alec a coke now.” 

Ford adjusts his glasses, though Stan doesn’t know how he can even see through them anymore. The lenses have gone grey, they’re so clouded with smoke. His too, as a matter of fact. He takes his glasses off and attempts to clean them, causing dirty streaks across the lenses that he can’t seem to buff away. 

“Lethe isn’t that far, is it?” Ford presses, and she scoffs. 

“Clearly too far for you,” she tells him, red eyes glancing Stan’s way. They soften for the briefest of moments. “Too far for him.” 

“Well then, which way should we go--”

The monster woman lets out a long-suffering sigh at Ford’s persistence, which immediately wins Stan’s sympathy. “I shouldn’t help you again,” she tells him, “but I’m tired of you mucking around in my home. That, and I like your brother. He’s come a long way to save your ass, and here you are almost leading him into Tartarus. But fortunately for you, I have a plan.” 

Tisi steps back and whistles, which gets louder as it echoes up the walls of the city, practically rattling the walls and causing all noise to cease for the eeriest ten seconds Stan’s experienced since first entering the underworld. Both he and Ford stand and wait in silence, the little monster woman scratching the Hydra’s belly while she waits patiently for….

Well, that’s just the thing, Stan doesn’t know what they’re waiting for. He steps closer to his brother, quiet terror distracting him from whatever it was that’s coming for them. 

Ford sees it before he does, and raises his hand to point in the distance. “There’s a dog,” he murmurs. Stan spots it too, and it’s actually kind of sweet-looking despite the fact that it has more than one head. 

“Cute mutt,” he says, “but I don’t know how this is supposed to he--oh shit.” 

It is not a cute mutt, not at all. It’s a gigantic monster of a mutt, and Stan grabs for Ford’s shoulders and ducks behind him. “Shoot it, kill it with fire!” he yelps. 

Tisi just seems amused by it all, and she whistles that deafening sounds again and the monster dog comes to rest beside her. She pets its slobbering jowls fondly and gives it a command, and to Stan’s amazement the dog lies on his stomach, its three heads bowing to the ground in submission. 

“Cerberus,” Ford whispers, and damn him, he sounds impressed. 

“Cerberus!” Tisi repeats happily, scratching one of the heads behind its ears. “Don’t worry, Stanley, he won’t hurt you. I mean...yes, normally he would, but the boss’ hellhound won’t attack you this time. He’s your ride.” 

Ford takes a step forward and Stan grabs his shoulder. “Are you insane? We’re not getting on that thing.”

“Don’t insult her,” Ford hisses, throwing off Stan’s hand and moving to climb on top of the second most horrifying thing in Stan’s present proximity. It’s monstrous in every sense of the word, and Ford has to climb through thick, matted fur in order to get himself on top of the thing. “Come on. She’s offering us her help. We should take advantage of it.”

Stan remains unmoved. He’s been through a lot in his life, some of which he can’t remember, some of which he can, but he knows better than to climb on top of a giant dog with three heads. Ford, already on top of the thing, looks put out. 

“Stanley, we’re lost. We could end up wandering this place forever. Have a little faith.” 

Again, that trust thing. Stan groans loudly, but he starts to slog on through the maze of contented hydra heads towards Cerberus. Tisi takes it upon herself to help him up; her touch soft and careful, like she knows that he’s hurting badly. 

“Cerberus will take you straight to Lethe. When he lets you down, pat his head and tell him he’s a good boy, or he’ll eat you alive.” Tisi scratches a different head on Cerberus’ body, cooing affectionately to the beast as he stands and stretches. “Isn’t that right? You’ll eat them alive. What a good hellhound.”

The three-headed dog pants and barks excitedly in response to Tisi’s baby talk, which was more horrifying than adorable for Stan. He grips his brother tightly, trusting him - silently encouraging him - to hang onto the dog’s fur tightly to keep them from flying off. 

“I hope not to see you again, Tisi,” Ford laughs. 

“Same here,” she says with a grin. Her eyes lock with Stan’s again, and she smiles. It’s actually a pretty smile, not all threatening this time, leaving Stan to wonder what he’s done to earn the affection of a monster like that. 

Cerberus begins to move, and Stan yelps and squeezes Ford even tighter. 

“Bye, Pines Twins! Don’t come back!”

Stan supposes that the sights they pass while on Cerberus’ back are amazing. He guesses that they’re awe-inspiring, both beautiful and horrifying, the kind of things that no living mortal had seen in thousands of years. His brother’s clearly enjoying them, ‘ooohing’ and ‘awwwing’ his way across the underworld on the back of a giant, man-eating dog, but Stan’s taken a different approach to the journey. He’s chosen to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend that he’s back on the scooter, and that the quick twists and turns he feels them taking are due to the tiny, Roman streets and bad traffic. It’s somehow preferable to his present situation.

“Stanley! Do you see this?” Ford calls out more than once. If he hears the annoyed grunt that Stan gives in response he clearly isn’t fazed by it. 

It’s only when Cerberus slows his gait that Stan finally opens his eyes. The river of fire is long gone, Tartarus’ glowing walls far, far off in the distance behind them both. There’s a wide river out in front of them, lush greenery at its banks and a soft wind making ripples in the water. 

Ford slips off the beast first. He then turns and holds his arms out, probably assuming that Stan’s just going to slide his ass down the side of this mountainous dog-beast. “Get a ladder,” he grumps. 

“You can’t stay up there all day. Just grab the fur and ease yourself down. Don’t worry, Stanley, I’ll catch you.”

He gives Ford a very long, very skeptical look through his dirt-streaked glasses. Ford’s arms never waver, and finally Stan just gives in. He grabs hold of a clump of fur and tries to slow his descent down, though thankfully Ford somehow catches him before he slams himself into the ground.

The landing’s harder than he would have preferred, but fortunately Ford doesn’t stick around to see his brother’s grimace and the subsequent coughing fit once he lets him go. No, he’s left to pet the dog, Stan can hear him murmuring ‘you’re a good boy’ over and over, watching as the dog’s snake-tail wags happily. 

“Fantastic,” he grumbles, “you’ve made another friend.” 

Ford leaves the dog and beckons for Stan do the same before it decides its done with them and wants a snack, though Stan doesn’t join his brother by the water’s edge immediately. He needs to sit again, to catch his breath. The coughing fit has left him winded and struggling, and he doesn’t want Ford to see. 

When he finally gathers himself up after a particularly violent round of coughing, he walks down to the river to marvel at the change in scenery. It’s just so peaceful. It’s almost as though they aren’t in another world, but back on the surface, ready to set sail again in the Stan O’ War. He wraps his arms around himself and lets out a shaky breath. 

“This is Lethe, River of Oblivion.” Ford’s voice drifts softly over the sound of the river churning. “Immature souls would drink from it to the wipe the memories of their former lives, preparing them for reincarnation in the mortal world. And just beyond its shores are the Elysian Fields, where souls of the righteous dwell for all eternity.” 

Ford looks over his shoulder, Stan managing a smile as he steps beside him to look out. “Or so the stories go,” he adds, laughing softly. 

“And the memory thing...memenon?” Stans ventures. 

“Mnemosyne. It might be a pool or a spring, but either way it should be just a little ways down.”

Stan rubs his arms and nods. He wonders what it’d be like to fall into a river like that, what it might do to a person. It’s not a good thought, and he drags his mind away from it quickly. “Alright, Sixer, then let’s go.” 

Ford’s staring intently at the waters himself, and it takes a small nudge from Stan’s elbow to get him to move again. “Yes, of course.” He smiles, but there’s something hidden behind it. “We’re so close.”


	13. Mnemosyne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Aaaah, I can't believe it! 
> 
> As always, special thanks to my beta, wannabeagrunklefan @ tumblr, who is a treasure, and to everyone who read and liked and enjoyed. It's been a real pleasure to write for you all! 
> 
> And take heed --the rating for this fic is getting bumped up for this last chapter's more _mature_ content. If you get my drift. (sex, folks. there's sex in this one.)

After everything he’s gone through, everything he’s experienced in the underworld, the fantastic creatures he’s met, the beasts fought and the gods encountered, he assumes that finding Mnemosyne would be somehow more difficult. More treacherous. At the very least they’d have to trek through a swamp of unspeakable horrors or face one final monster, but no -- it’s not like that all. The path ahead of them seems clear. Not a monster or nightmare in sight. 

They cross a sturdy-looking stone bridge that takes them over Lethe, pausing in the middle to look down into the water together. Stanley leans over and Ford joins him, both just watching the gentle rapids in silence. Their hands began to stray until they find each other, and Ford laces their fingers together and holds tightly. 

Whereas Lethe is wide and deep, Mnemosyne is small and shallow, almost a creek in comparison to its so-called sister river. It’s an overflow from a pool just a little ways up, the gurgling of its waters growing louder with each step. “Kind of wimpy,” Stanley murmurs. “You’d think after all that it’d be...I dunno. More impressive?”

“You know, I was thinking the same thing.” Ford smiles and squeezes his hand. 

“Huh.” Stanley turns his face to the sky, his eyes closing. “The sun’s shining too. How’s that even possible? There’s no sun in the underworld.” 

Light is shining in this part of the underworld. It’s warm here, inviting, calming. Ford finds himself smiling, glancing over to Stanley to see him doing the same, the sunshine on his pale skin. 

Pale skin.

“Stanley…”

Stanley’s hand grips Ford’s tightly, his knuckles turning white from the death grip he has on the bridge railing. His eyes remain closed as he slumps down, Ford giving a startled cry as he hurries to scoop him up in his arms before he hits the ground. 

“Stanley! Stanley! What happened?”

“Nothing, just...kind of tired…”

It’s one of the least convincing lies Stanley Pines has ever told. “Nothing my ass,” he scowls, false anger hiding horrific anxiety. He holds him close to his chest, panic rising up at the prospect of not all being well with his brother.

Part of him wants desperately to give into the panic. Nothing has ever worried him this much, not the portal, not the apocalypse, not Bill Cipher. He had control then, a tiny bit, but if Stanley’s really hurt then everything’s out of his hands. 

Ford takes a deep breath in and steadies him, lowering Stanley slightly so he could place a hand onto his chest. He begins to methodically palpate around his shoulders, then his arms, then his chest, watching Stanley’s face intently for any sign of pain. His fingers graze a lump on his side and Stanley nearly jumps right out of his skin. A hematoma wouldn’t knock Stanley on his ass like this. It has to be a couple of broken ribs, or maybe something even worse.

“When did this happen?” His mind races as he tries to recall a moment when they would have been in that kind of danger. “The hydra? Your fall?”

Stanley’s tolerance for Ford’s worrying seems to finally run thin. He grunts and pushes Ford’s hand away roughly, trying to free himself from his hold. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, attempting to sit up on his own. He coughs but struggles on through. “We’re so close. Let’s keep going.” 

“Stanley, I don’t think--”

“We’ve come so far,” he interrupts, sounding so adamant it’s startling. “We have to keep going. Now help my sorry ass up and let’s go.” 

It’s a good argument, and spoken so firmly that it gets Ford moving again. They had come so far, and whatever this journey is it needs to end by that river. He helps his brother to his feet, propping him upright by slinging his arm over his shoulder and holding him around his waist. They start to plod on like that, a shuffling four-armed, four-legged creature, making their way across the bridge and towards the edge of the overflow, pausing occasionally so Stanley could catch his breath. It’s a struggle, and he’s glad to finally get to the water’s edge. 

“How is this supposed to work?” 

Ford’s not entirely sure how to answer Stanley’s question. It’s doubtful that drinking from the water involves any kind of ritual, especially since there doesn’t appear to be anyone - living or dead - in sight. But that doesn’t solve the question of how much to imbibe, or if even touching it would suffice. 

“I think you just drink it,” he finally answers, giving Stanley a little unsure roll of his shoulder.

“Fair enough. Set me down.”

He gently eases Stanley down onto the ground and joins him, the water just within reach. They both fall silent, contemplating the calm creek. Ford wonders if Stanley’s doing the same thing as he is, trying to somehow detect the magic in the water.

“Stanley,” Ford breathes, “you don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t know why he needs to give him this way out. The moment just feels so final, so unyielding. He balls his hands into fists at his knees, looking Stanley’s way and hoping he doesn’t see hesitation on his face. 

He doesn’t. Stanley looks resolved. “I told you, I want to. I’m just...you know what? It’s fine. I’m not scared.” As if to prove his point he clears his throat and reaches out to touch a finger to the water. Ford jumps, but nothing happens, save for a ripple in the surface. 

“See,” Stanley nods, “it’s just water, Ford. It’s just water.” 

Ford doesn’t know which one of them he’s trying to comfort, but damn it all, does he ever appreciate the effort. 

Stanley inhales, but even something as simple as that rattles him. He begins to cough, leaning over the creek to try and catch his breath, the water swirling pink from the drops of blood that fall from his lips. He shakes as he reaches down to cup some of the water in his quaking hands, avoiding the blood, and brings it up to his lips and drinks deeply. 

He slurps and chuckles to himself. “Tastes funny.”

It’s the blood in his mouth. The blood has made the water taste odd. Ford holds tightly to his arm.

“Do you think it’s working?” Stanley asks. “Should I drink more?”

“I don’t know,” Ford whispers. 

Another cough overcomes him, and Ford once again takes him into his arms. “Easy, easy. Just try to breathe.”

Stanley doesn’t stop coughing. The blood begins to stain his teeth, and he moans in pain. Alarmed and feeling helpless, Ford lays him gently onto the ground and tries in vain to bring more water to his lips. He doesn’t drink, barely able to suck in a breath between coughing fits. 

Ford finally just collapses on his knees beside Stanley’s prone figure. Even if the water worked and Stanley’s memories were returned to him, he’s starting to think he won’t make it out of this alive. 

“I thought we did everything right,” he whispers mournfully. “I thought we were going to make it. I… I really did. Maybe that was naive, but I thought that we’d struggled enough. I thought we’d earned...I don’t know.” 

Stanley doesn’t speak, but his hand does reach out to find Ford’s. He smiles and closes his eyes, and Ford shakes his head. Why did things have to turn out this way? 

In his inner jacket pocket is the vial from Proserpina. He reaches for it, holding it up to the light with a sigh. 

“What’s that?” 

It was Stanley, who’s alarmingly alert. He’s staring intently at the glass vial and the water within, chest rattling each time he takes a breath.

Ford sighs and lowers the bottle. “Lethe.” 

“Lethe?”

“The waters of Lethe,” he explains. “Oblivion in a bottle, Stanley. Better than a memory gun.”

He chuckles darkly, pointedly not looking at his brother. He knows he’ll be met with concern, or worse, disappointment. 

“I filled it when you weren’t looking,” he continues, swirling the river water around the vial. It twists and funnels and then settles within the beautiful glass, looking oddly unremarkable. “It’s my backup. If you still couldn’t remember despite drinking from the river, I was thinking I could just...join you. We could forget together.” 

But now it’s not just a matter of not remembering. Stanley’s not able to stand, and Ford knows he can’t carry him the whole way back. And if this is it, and he loses Stanley here by Mnemosyne, a little vial of oblivion isn’t going to be able to wash away that pain. 

The oddest noise pulls him out of his head. It’s Stanley, and he’s _laughing_. Ford watches him for a moment, utterly bewildered to see him look downright chipper while blood falls from his lips. 

“Poindexter,” he says, “obliterating yourself for love is beautiful, but stupid.”

Ford’s eyes widen. That nickname -- he hasn’t heard it in months now, since before Stanley’s memories started to fail. He scrambles to lean forward, hovering over him and searching his face. 

“What did you just call me?”

“Huh?” Stanley’s brow furrows. “Poindexter?” 

Ford barks out a laugh. “Poindexter!” He can’t hold back the hopeful grin. He touches Stanley’s mouth to dab away the crimson droplets. “Stanley...what are the names of your great niece and nephew?” 

“Wha--”

“Just answer the question, Stanley!” 

“Mabel and Dipper.” He spits it out like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then three seconds later he’s mirroring Ford’s disbelief. “Mabel and Dipper...I…” 

“You remembered! It’s working!” Ford clings to Stanley’s shirt and he laughs, face pressed against the worn fabric. “It’s working! You remember! Quick, quick. Tell me what else you remember. Tell me...what was the name of our pet mouse?”

“Archimedes,” Stanley answers easily. 

“But you always hated it,” Ford tells him, still laughing, still almost unhinged by the sudden return of his brother. “We flipped a coin and I won. You always called him--”

“Archie.” Stanley grabs his arm, tears beginning to form at the corner of his eyes. “I called him Archie. Ma hated him.” 

“We used to put him in the sugar jar to try and scare her,” Ford remarks. He’d forgotten that memory himself, it’d been so long ago. “What else do you remember?”

“I remember…” Stanley murmurs, eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. “I remember all of it. Mabel and Dipper, last summer. They came to stay with me at the Shack. I’d begged and begged their parents to let them stay. It was the best day of my life when they called me up and told me I’d get them for the whole summer. I remember the Shack...the portal. I kept that secret from them, but they were too smart for me.” His expression softens and he laughs, tears finally slipping down his cheeks.

Ford raises himself up, but Stanley isn’t finished. “And Ma and that sugar jar. I remember our mother’s face. She had that sharp chin, and we’d make fun of her when we caught her plucking it. She...she just thought we were both just so perfect though. I remember our father too, and his old suits that smelled like cigar smoke and old man cologne. Where did he even get those suits? Do you remember them, Ford? They were bad, even by my standards. He used to make us help around the shop...until I broke an old lamp. Then we weren’t allowed downstairs anymore.”

Stanley pauses to try and wipe his face, and after watching him struggle for two seconds too long Ford takes off his dirty glasses and sets them aside. “I remember the beach too,” Stanley adds, blinking up at the sky. Each new memory sounds like a revelation to him. “The sunburns and the sand between my toes. The cave we used to explore. The terrible cotton candy. That old swing set.”

Ford touches his cheeks and leans down to kiss the tears away. He’s so grateful for this moment; five minutes from now might as well be a lifetime. After struggling for so long he finally has his brother back. 

The act of tenderness seems to have frozen Stanley though. His eyes narrow and he grips Ford’s wrist. “I remember the day you kissed me.” 

Ford knew that this would happen, anticipated it even, hoped for it, but it still chills him when Stanley speaks those words. He stops himself from reacting, just barely, and tries to back away to give him some room. Stanley keeps an iron grip on him, refusing to let him go. 

“I knew something was up, Ford. That whole day you were being weird, but I let it go because sometimes you were just like that. Too in your own head.” Stanley inhales sharply, grimacing in pain. “But then you leaned in and I didn’t pull away, and I thought...well, dammit, Ford, as if we weren’t weird enough.”

Ford can’t look at him anymore; he doesn’t want to see what he looks like when he’s reminiscing. 

“Hey.” 

He feels a tug on his wrist, and when he finally looks down Stanley’s bright smile meets him. “I think I might’a hurt you all those years ago? I need you to know that I didn’t want to. I just didn’t want us...we were already freaks, Ford. I wouldn’t have been able to handle all the shit that would’ve been thrown our way. And we could only protect each other so much. The world’s cruel sometimes. I thought if we could wait until we were outta that town, whatever happened might’ve ended up being okay.”

Ford frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Stanford. You’re a dope.” He laughs, once again compelling Ford to quickly dab at the bright, red blood on his lips. He lets his thumb linger for a moment, still confused by what this all means. 

“I am not. You’re obtuse.”

“Oh yeah? How’s this for obtuse -- I love you.” A little heartbreaking chuckle. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re surprised. I don’t know why. You’ve broken my fucking heart so many times I’ve lost count, but I love you.” 

His own heart is beating so fast that he doesn’t think it’s even pumping anymore. It must have stopped. Has it finally happened, has he died?

“You love me?”

Stanley closes his eyes, a little amused smirk on his pale face. “Ask me again and I might change my mind.”

“You love me. And...this is you. This is all you.” 

“Uh huh. It’s all me. I love you, Ford. Are you still gonna erase your mind after all of this?”

“Only if you die,” Ford tells him honestly. He brings Stanley’s hand up to his lips, pressing kisses against his knuckles. “I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

“I’m not gonna die.” 

“You can’t promise that.” He feels a crack forming in his resolve again, annoyance and pain of things having gone so right and so wrong at the same time. He squeezes his hand and chokes. “You can’t even sit up right now.”

“Give me a minute, Sixer. I’m gonna walk right outta here. You’ll see.”

Normally Ford finds it easy to argue with Stanley, but not right now. Right now all he feels is joyful misery, or miserable joy, whichever one is more overpowering in the moment. He looks out to the horizon and sets Stanley’s hand to his chest, thinking, searching, trying to find a way out of this. Stanley will not stand on his own, but there has to be a way out from this predicament. It can’t end this way. 

In the distance there was a small, black speck on the horizon. Ford hadn’t focused his attention on it for long - he was occupied by other, more important things, after all - so when he finally turns to gaze in that direction he’s surprised to find that the speck has nearly tripled in size, and still growing larger and larger. Something’s approaching, making its way down Lethe. 

He stares for a good, long time at the speck, hackles raised in case this is something terrible come to make matters worse for them both. He even reaches for the gun at his waist, but then he starts to make out figures in the shape. 

Two figures, both on a small skiff with an ancient-looking lantern at the aft. One grizzled, with a great, big beard, the other tall and lean and beautiful. 

A voice shouts from off in the distance. “Heeeeeey! Hey, there they are!” 

“What the hell is that?” Stanley asks. 

“Friends,” Ford answers, kissing his hand once more and leaving him to meet the ferry by the edge of the river. 

Ford takes the outstretched hand of Proserpina as she steps off the skiff and onto the shore. Despite being a little green around the gills, she’s just as beautiful and ethereal as Ford remembers. Though it is kind of odd to see her next to a figure like Charon, who looks even more scraggly next to someone so elegant.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve ridden with Charon,” she moans softly, letting go of Ford’s hand to double over and take a few steadying breaths. “Oof.” 

Charon, who’s busy securing the skiff so it doesn’t drift off, rolls his eyes. “It’s not that bad,” he grumbles. “It’s not like I took you up Phlegethon. Now _there’s_ a rocky ride.”

For looks between them in bewilderment. “What are you two doing here?”

Still crouching, Proserpina places a hand to Ford’s chest, unveiling that humbling smile of hers for just a second. “Just one moment.”

“She’s gonna puke.”

“I am not,” she says sharply, sounding less like her dignified self. It takes a few more deep breaths before the apparent sea-sickness leaves her, but when it does she stands tall and flings her long hair over her shoulder. “Tisi told us you were still here. After she sent you on your way she came to speak with us.”

“It’s a rescue mission,” Charon clarifies. He joins Proserpina and stretches out his legs, wobbling a little. “Man, it’s been awhile since I’ve been on dry land.” 

“A new venture for us both,” Proserpina says dryly, and Charon stops stretching with an intimidated, little frown. “Now, where is your brother? Tisi told me he was injured.”

“Pardon my French, but what the fuck is going on?” Ah, and there’s Stanley, yelling from his position on the ground. Ford runs his hand over his mouth and chin, giving an embarrassed grin as Proserpina slowly frowns.

“Stanley Pines, I presume,” she says. Her long legs take her across the rocks and towards the grass where Stanley has fallen, Charon quickly following after her, still walking very much like a bow-legged sailor. Ford rubs at his forehead and then joins them at his brother’s side. 

“Heeeey, Stanley!” Charon smirks and leans over him. “You’re not looking too good, pal. What the hell happened?” 

“I got hit with the underworld version of a truck.” Proserpina puts her hands onto Stanley’s chest, and his head tilts to the other direction to acknowledge her. “Ford, who’s the pretty lady?” 

Ford’s hand never left his face. He meets the goddess’s gaze and grins awkwardly again. “A little respect, Stanley, that’s the Queen of the Underworld,” he mumbles.

“Is that so?”

“It is so,” Proserpina nods. She smiles gently and continues to run her hands on Stanley’s chest, but he never takes his eyes off of her. 

“How you doin’?” 

“Dude,” Charon snorts, “are you hitting on her?”

“Kind of. Is it working?”

Proserpina sits back and laughs. “Not even a little,” she chirps. She finds Stanley’s discarded glasses in the brush, and places them back on his face with a playful tap to his nose. “Sit up, Stan, you should be right as rain now.” 

To Ford’s utter surprise Stanley then does so, and easily too, smoothly pulling himself back onto his feet. He takes a deep breath, and -- nothing. No coughing, no wheezing. He looks even better than he did when Ford first encountered him, Proserpina’s touch clearly having restored him and then some. 

“How are you feeling?” Ford asks him, bridging the gap between them and gingerly touching the area that Proserpina had fixed. 

“Feelin’ great, Sixer.” Stanley takes his hand and caresses gently. Their eyes meet and Ford’s heart flutters. “Really, just fine.”

“Amazing.” He shakes his head. He wants to pull Stanley into a tight embrace, but he’s suddenly very aware that Charon and Proserpina are staring at them intently. 

“Um...thank you.” He pulls his hand back. “I guess we’ll be on our way.” 

“Yes, Charon will take you back,” Proserpina informs them. She crosses over the patch of indented grass where Stanley had been lying nearly half-dead and reaches into Ford’s pocket. She takes out the vial, and with a little smirk pours out the contents onto the ground in front of his feet. 

“I like a happy ending,” she explains, handing the empty vial back to Ford. 

Charon clears his throat. “Hey, Stan. Come on. Get on the skiff so I can push out without it floating off.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Ford loves that Stanley’s charmed the legendary ferryman, who even in the myths had been a bit notorious for his moods. But of course Stanley has; he’s a smooth son of a bitch after all. He watches the two navigate the skiff from its moor, Charon taking pains to make sure the mortal doesn’t touch the water as he gets into the small boat.

While the two fiddle around Proserpina comes to stand by Ford’s side. She crosses her arms, her expression peaceful and a touch self-satisfied. 

“May I ask you something?”

“I expected that you would,” Proserpina replies gently. 

“Why all the help? Why...with everything? I thought you judged and punished sinners, but everyone here has been so...”

“Kind? I believe my husband said it well enough -- your journey is the most interesting thing that’s happened to us in a long, long while.” She touches his back, fingers barely ghosting over his jacket. “You and your brother are human, and you’re not perfect by any means. But you are good. Goodness is a thing to reward.”

Ford screws up his face in an amused smile. “Are we good?” 

She laughs. “Sometimes.”

“Hey!” It’s Charon. He waves at him and gestures towards the skiff. “Ford, let’s go already!”

“I guess it’s time to say goodbye.” He offers Prosperina his hand, who laughs right in his face and embraces him instead. Her hold is tight and warm, and it sends waves of nostalgia for his mother and the beach and clear, night skies through him. 

“Oh! I nearly forgot!” she exclaims. She pulls back and takes the vial from him once again. “Fill this with the waters of Mnemosyne. Your brother’s memory will fade from time-to-time. When it does give him a drop of the water. Just a single drop will restore him temporarily.” 

Ford looks from the vial, to her face, to the vial again. His head is reeling. “Is...is he not healed?”

Proserpina smiles sadly. “No, I’m afraid not, Stanford. To rid the water of its side effects we had to dilute it. Omniscience is too much for a mortal mind. But the vial…” She taps it. “It will hold enough for many years. Remember though, just a single drop when he fades.”

“But I have so many questions! When will his memory fade? How long does each drop last? What if I run out of water?”

She hushes him with a slender, well-manicured finger to his lips. “Life is uncertain. Now go. Refill the vial with Mnemosyne and get on the ferry.” 

Charon calls to him again, and Ford reluctantly pulls away from the deity. He stops to refill and cap the vial, then takes Charon’s hand and eases himself carefully into the skiff with Stanley. 

“Hey,” his brother says, still looking like a walking miracle to him. “Everything alright between you and her?”

“Yes.” Ford can feel the vial in his pocket, heavy with its importance. All of this, and it didn’t even end with an easy fix. But he finds himself smiling anyway, and rests his head on Stanley’s shoulder tiredly. “Everything’s great.”

“Alright, guys, ready to go?” The skiff tips from side-to-side as Charon hops on. He pushes off and they begin to sail up the wide river of Lethe. 

“See you later, Pines twins!” Proserpina shouts, voice already distant. 

“Huh?” Stanley looks to him and Charon. “What does she mean by ‘see you later’?”

“God knows,” Ford laughs. 

“Ugh, that’s awful. Stop talking.”

“No, you.” 

“Both of you stop talking,” Charon grouses, “or so help me, I’ll turn this skiff around.”

Ford and Stanley share a chuckle, quieting to enjoy the relative peace of their ride up Lethe and the river Styx. Ford occasionally taps his fingers against the vial in his pocket, just to remind himself that it’s still there. He feels Stanley’s hand brush against his leg, and catches a glimpse of a smirk on his face. He supposes a life spent worrying about Stanley's brain won't be so bad, so long as he actually remembers to live. 

He takes Stanley's hand and holds tightly. 

He doubts it'll be a problem.  
_________________________________

The Stan O’ War II wears a coat made of barnacles from being in the port for so long. Stan thinks they were probably gone for a full month; he’s surprised the local authorities didn’t impound their boat and use it as evidence of their disappearance. 

Even more surprising, they both somehow managed to keep their keys and wallets through their wanderings. It would have been the absolutely worst to have had to walk from Avernus back to the port after all they’d gone through, and icing on a shitty cake to finally get to the Stan O’ War and be locked out of the damn thing. 

Climbing aboard the boat, Stan feels a little like he’s stepping into an old picture. Everything looks so much homier now that he can remember it all -- worn in and familiar, and just comfortable. He finds the kitchen the way he’d left it, all the scrapbooks and letters out from reading and rereading, Ford’s journal opened to his notes on the underworld. He chuckles to himself and closes it up. That’s enough of that for now. 

Ford’s already making himself a cup of tea, moving things around in the kitchen area while the soft sound of the generator hums from below the lower deck. He’s missed this, the cozy cabin and the man puttering around in the cabinets. He didn’t even realize how weird everything had been until this exact moment. He sits down at the table and picks up one of the letters Ford had written him and hidden, reading it again now that he understands everything. 

“Which one is that?” Ford asks, voice a little hesitant. 

Stan clears his throat. “ _Stanley_ ,” he reads, “ _I like to think about what our lives would have been had we not both been so stubborn and refused to talk to each other. Would we have sailed away together sooner? Would I have never gone to Gravity Falls, or have met Bill Cipher? What would we be? What might we have accomplished together?_ ” 

“Ah,” Ford murmurs, sitting down beside him. “That one. Right.” 

“It’s a good one,” Stan tells him, setting the paper back down. “It didn’t mean so much to me when I first read it. I didn’t have regrets. I must have been annoying, huh? Though...sometimes…”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah,” Stan tells him. The kettle begins to scream and Ford gets to his feet to shut it off. “Sometimes I’d see things and they’d make me feel sad. This one time I saw these brothers playing on the beach, and I thought, ‘I’m missing something here’.” 

“Almost like a subconscious longing,” Ford says, diving back into his head. Not for long though. He steeps the tea and brings over two cups and a flask. “Here. We both need this, I think.” 

“Trying to kill more of my brain cells, huh?” Stan chuckles and brings the cup up to his mouth for a careful sip. 

“Never,” Ford replies, head finding his shoulder once again. It seems to be his favorite place now. “Never.” 

Careful not to jostle Ford’s noggin, Stan reaches for the scrapbook and brings it onto his lap. He flips through it, the two of them looking through the glitter and markers to each picture and drawing. 

“Can’t believe I forgot these kids. That was really…that....”

“Sucked,” Ford agrees. He reaches out to turn the page. “Sucked a big one.”

“Language, Stanford,” Stan teases. He traces the faces of his great niece and great nephew and smiles to himself. He knew he loved them, even when his brain couldn’t tell him why. “They’re probably worried. We haven’t written or called in a while.” 

“After we sleep for about three days straight we can give them a call. We’ll have to tell them everything though. It’s hard to lie to kids as precocious as that.” 

“We won’t tell them about the near-death experiences though, right? Or about...me?” 

Ford pulls his eyes off the page and looks up at him. “No. We won’t tell them about you. That’d be cruel. They don’t need to know.” He raises himself up and presses a single kiss to his throat. “I’m so glad to have you back.” 

Stan shudders and closes the scrapbook. “Sixer, are you okay?”

“What do you mean? I’m great, Stanley. I’ve got you back. And...well.”

“Well?”

Stan cocks his head to one side, waiting for his answer. Ford fumbles a little, sipping his tea and glancing at a couple of objects on the table, but when he finally decides on his response he smiles brilliantly. 

“Well, you love me! I couldn’t be more okay.” 

“Yeah, I do,” Stan laughs. He reaches for the letters, the journal, and stacks them up in a pile. “And you love me. I’ve got evidence.”

“I’ve told you that I do.”

“And you’ve told me,” he scowls playfully. “But...you know. You went through some things while I was losing my marbles.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah, don’t think I forgot about the late nights and obsessive note taking.” 

“Yes, well, that’s nothing. Just working out a little frustration.” He pushes the stack of papers out of the way and leans an elbow on the table. “When you’re feeling helpless you try to do what you can. Just ignore it.”

“I know what being helpless feels like. I’m not going to judge you for it.”

Ford grunts. “Mn, sure...hey. This is kind of off topic, but I have a question for you.”

He knows he’s just switching the subject, but he thinks it’s fine to humor him. So long as Ford’s actually alright, and he seems to be, there’s no reason to push him. “Oh yeah?” Stan brings his feet up onto the bench beside him. “Well, now’s the time to air our dirty laundry. Shoot.”

“Did you have sex with that stranger in Monaco?”

Stan’s reaction is probably not what Ford had been anticipating, but he can’t help himself; it’s just so damn funny. He laughs until he starts to wheeze and cough a bit, Ford sighing and patting him on the back until he calms down. 

“It’s not that funny.”

“Yeah, it is,” Stan says, his laughter calmed to just the odd giggle here and there. “First of all, how did you know about the man in Monaco? Second of all, you were jealous! That’s...that’s tops.” 

“How is that great?” Ford finishes off his tea and pours straight whiskey into the cup. “I was struggling! You were coming onto me, and I thought if I acted on it and you got your memory back then we’d never speak again. It was horrible, Stanley.”

“No, it’s adorable, Sixer,” Stan corrects him, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Ford’s face flushes and Stan grins. “It’s adorable because you wanted me so bad, and even now you’re angry just thinking about that guy.” 

“Okay, so I am. It still doesn’t answer my question.” 

“Still doesn’t answer mine either. You tell me how you knew, and I’ll tell you what you wanna know.”

Ford grunts and takes another swig from his cup. “I...was bored. I went into the casino looking for something to do, and ran into your friend there.” He trails off, then clears his throat and adds, “he thought I was you.”

Stan barks out a loud laugh. “No! You ran into him? What are the odds, huh? Did he try to pick you up? No wonder he was confused when I came back all raring to go!” 

Stan laughs until he wheezes, then wipes the corners of his eyes and sighs. “I didn’t have sex with him though. I hope that’s what you wanted to hear.” It clearly is, because Ford slumps down in his seat and sighs dramatically. “I went up to his room, got a little too drunk, and then passed out in the hot tub with my clothes on. He kicked me out when I woke up.”

It’s Ford’s turn to chuckle, and Stan shoots him a smirk. “Find that funny, eh?”

“You know I do. It’s comedy at its finest.”

“Because you know so much about humor.”

“I know that you taking all that time to get ready that night, suit and makeshift cravat and all, only to wind up black out drunk in a tub is absolutely hysterical.”

“Fair enough.” Stan snorts and rubs his head. How much whiskey did Ford put into his tea exactly? “So you’re not jealous anymore? Because I was only taking some frustrations out at the time myself, and you really can't blame me for that.”

“No,” Ford says, punching him lightly on the arm. “Not jealous.”

“Good.” He returns the punch. “And let’s set the record straight here, it’s only been you, Sixer. Just you.”

“Even before you lost your memory?”

“Uh huh. I just didn’t have any of that stuff like caution and good sense when I couldn’t remember anything. Having a faulty memory does weird things to your inhibitions. I mean -- just look at the hillbilly with the raccoon wife. And now that my memory’s back? Fuck it, right?”

Ford sips the whiskey and grins wickedly. “Fuck it,” he agrees, sounding just a little giddy to Stan’s ears. “Who cares what two old guys do?”

“Nobody, that’s who. Nobody’s gonna care about what we do, or who we do, or any of that. I mean, as far as anyone’s concerned, we’re already weird loners.” Stan picks up the flask and knocks it against Ford’s mug. “So cheers. We’ve both got one foot in the grave and we’re in love.” 

“Yeah,” Ford whispers, hooking an arm around Stan’s waist. He sinks down into the seat and lays his head back against the shelf, knocking a couple of books down in the process. “We’re in love.”

“And that’s the last time we’re saying that. Too hokey.” 

Ford’s chest rumbles as he laughs, and it’s deep and sounds...unburdened. “So, when did you realize you loved me like that?” 

Stan shrugs, but he knows exactly when it happened. “You can’t spend thirty years trying to bring someone back without falling for them,” he admits. “Plus you’re kind of cute in those journals. A little unstable here and there, but, yeah, cute.” 

“Cute.” Ford scoffs and takes another swig. “Science isn’t cute, Stanley.”

“It sometimes is when you’re writing about it.” 

“You loved me then, huh? Not earlier?” 

“I don’t know about earlier, Ford. Teenage hormones are a hell of a thing, right? I can tell you this though. You were everything to me. My brother, my other half, the person I wanted to spend my life with, and nothing’s really changed.” 

“Do you think it makes us egotists?” Ford asks, sounding just a little too philosophical for Stan’s taste. “I know our faces are the same, but you and I couldn’t be more different. I just wonder if there’s something about our makeup that makes us more...self involved? If our egos have allowed for this attraction.”

“Are you trying to figure out why? You’re the biggest damn nerd…” Stan snorts and rubs his face. “Why does anyone do anything? Don’t spoil this with logic. We’re finally happy.”

Surprisingly, the response seems to be good enough for Ford. He takes another swig from his mug and grabs a letter from the top of the stack, the paper crinkling under his thumb and forefinger. 

“We should burn these,” he decides.

Stan quickly plucks it from his hand, shaking his head and smoothing the paper out over his knee. “No way. You wrote these for me. I’m keeping ‘em.”

“I wrote them because I didn’t think you’d read them. Same with the notes in the journal. You can’t keep them, it wouldn’t be...fair.”

“What?” Stan scowled. He folded the letter and set it aside delicately. “Because you bared your heart and soul to me? No dice. I want them. Give this old man something to hold on to.” 

“Well, I mean...you’ve got me.” Ford edged a little closer. “You can hold on to me.” 

Stan bursts out laughing once again. “Are you coming onto me?”

“Kinda,” Ford says, doing a not-so-terrific impression of him, “is it working?”

Stan grins lopsidedly. “You know what? Yeah, actually. It kind of is. Ya big lug.”

They share another laugh between them and Ford pulls away to sit up. “And on that note, I need a shower. I feel like I’ve got three months worth of underworld miasma on me.”

“I don’t know what that is, but sure.” 

Ford smirks and strips himself of his coat, which he carefully lays over a chair, then his sweater and his undershirt. He then leans down to begin pulling on the laces of his boots, but it takes him longer than Stan would have expected to work them off. He finally slides off the first with a soft hiss, Stan peering over the table in time to watch Ford pull off the second boot and wiggle his toes against the floor.

“Are those bandages?”

Ford shrugs nonchalantly and stands. “I did a lot of walking.” He starts for the tiny water closet but Stan jumps up and stops him. 

“Hey,” he mutters, brow furrowed deeply as he hooks a finger in Ford’s belt loop. “You didn’t finish undressing.” 

After everything that was said between them, all the moments of truth and confessions, Ford still looks surprised at Stan’s forwardness. His reaction, as it usually does, amuses the hell out of him, and he grins as he gives a tug on the fabric, drawing Ford closer. 

“I guess I should take care of that,” Ford laughs, quickly biting his lip as Stan begins to toy with the front of his trousers. He undoes the top button and Ford sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Don’t worry, Sixer,” Stan murmurs, very slowly undoing his zipper, “I’ve got it.”

Ford groans as Stan slips his hand past the cloth, and it’s the most sinful noise he’s ever heard. He decides he needs to hear it again, and again, and as many times as possible for as long as possible. As Ford scrambles to grip his arms, Stan bends his head down and brushes his lips against the side of his neck. He sucks his shoulder, earning shudders and even more moans from Ford, and then laughs and pulls back. 

“You’re right,” he says, “you’re pretty gross right now. Maybe you should hop into that shower first.”

Ford slugs him across the arm and leans back against the cabinets with a breathy chuckle. “You jerk.” He grips the countertop and his head rolls to one side, exposing the side of his neck that hadn’t just been ravished. Stan has to admit, he looks _very_ tempting. “Is this what I can expect from you from here on out?”

He shrugs. “Eh, maybe. I’m a wild card. You never know what you’re gonna get.” He grabs the flask from the table and takes another swig. “Now get your ass in that shower.” 

“Bossing me around,” Ford grumbles with a wide grin on his face. He finally leaves, but not before stepping out of his pants right then and there in the middle of the kitchen. 

“Hey, I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but I like your tattoo--” He peers around the doorframe just as Ford shuts it in his face. 

While Ford showers - and he sings in the shower this time, which is endearing - Stan finishes off the flask, then goes to wash up in the sink and change into some clean clothes. He got a little blood on his shirt and his pants are kind of dirty, so it’s with a happy little whistle that he balls them both up and tosses them into the harbor. Ford’s not looking, and it’s a well known fact that cloth breaks down because of the...the fibers, so he doesn’t feel too bad as he watches them sink down into the water.

“Did you just throw your clothes into the harbor?” 

Stan bolts upright. Sneaky bastard, he didn’t even hear him coming. “What, me? No, no.” He leans back down against the railing. “Yes.”

Ford leans beside him. He folds his hands together and stares out at the horizon. It’s dark already, the stars starting to multiply in the sky. “And why did you just throw your clothes into the harbor, Stanley?”

“I dunno. They smelled like giant dog. They had monster drool on them. My blood.” He pauses, then adds, “I’ve got extra pants, I’ll be fine.” 

Ford sighs and pats his hand. “You’ve got extra pants.” 

The ocean is still, and Stan moves a little closer to Ford. He smells a lot better than he did before; he’s sure he probably tastes better too. 

“Ford.” He tries to turn, but Ford quickly moves from his side and leans into him from behind. His hands wrap themselves around his waist, holding him fast, his face pressing against the nape of his neck. He can feel his lips on his skin, his hot breath, and his knees go a little weak. 

“I’ve waited,” Ford whispers. 

“Waited?”

Ford answers him by sliding a hand down to the front of Stan’s pants. He cups him, finding his cock underneath the cloth and stroking slowly. Apparently they’re doing away with subtlely now. Stan wishes he’d gotten the memo. 

"For this," he adds, though Stan doesn't need the clarification. He grabs hold of the railing and shivers. "Haven't you?"

"Uhn." 

He can't think straight, everything's so distracting. Ford's calloused fingers and the rocking of the ship in the bay, the stars dotting the sky overhead -- Stan can appreciate when a moment's close to perfect.

Ford’s stubble scrapes his skin. He hasn't had a shave since coming back from the underworld, but it feels good. Rough, like his hands. "Tell me that you wanted me too," he says, mouth traveling along his neck. Stan inhales sharply, already feeling undone by him. 

He reaches behind him and carts his fingers through Ford's hair. "And if I don't?" He pushes back against his hips, delighting in the way Ford seems to lose himself for a moment. His hands dig into his hips and he grinds back against him, Stan feeling him hardening against his ass. He moans; does he ever want him. 

Ford suddenly stops, panting softly and wrapping both arms around Stan's waist. "I'm going to..."

"Not here," Stan shudders. Not out here, not like this, still fully clothed and not even facing each other. Stan wants to see Ford's expression when he falls apart. 

As if reading his mind, Ford tugs Stan by the arm and turns him around. "Not here," he repeats, lips just hovering frustratingly over Stan's. 

The boat's so small, it takes just a few stumbling steps to get them back inside the cabin. Ford’s unrelenting in his touch, trying to push Stan towards the nearest flat surface and tug him out of his clothes at the same time. He gets him over the table, his mouth finding Stan's throat and humming as he sucks red marks into his skin. For his part Stan at least manages to shuck Ford's shirt off, but he's quickly thwarted when Ford tugs down his pants. 

Stan laughs; Ford wasn't kidding when he said he was impatient. 

When he rises back up from ridding Stan fully of his pants and sees the amusement on his face, Ford smiles crookedly. He presses his hands into the table and leans in, kissing Stan until they're both left gasping for air.

"What was that for?" Stan sighs, once again completely distracted by Ford's mouth. He's trailing his lips down Stan's jaw, pressing soft, hot kisses to his face. 

"I've always wanted to kiss you while you were laughing."

Stan doesn't know how to reply, so he's thankful when Ford's lips meet his again. They move slowly, indulgently, Ford pressing his still-clothed hips against Stan and rocking. “I’m going to kiss the dentures right out of your mouth,” he whispers, then pauses for a self-induced double take. “Is that...that’s too much, right?” 

“Yeah, but I’m into it," Stan laughs, Ford joining him with a rueful shake of his head. 

The cool air hits Stan's bared skin as Ford pulls away, giving him the shivers. And then Ford leaves him like that, all hot and bothered and spread out on the table while he just wants off into the next room. "Hey! Where are you going?" When he doesn't get a reply he groans disappointedly and sits up, pushing some papers and the mug from the tabletop around idly while he listens to Ford root around in the bathroom. 

“Don’t leave me hanging, Sixer! You’re already pushing your luck here!” 

They're both pushing their luck, given their age. Stan definitely more so than Ford, considering all of Ford's...assets, but for the moment he feels like he's twenty again. He thinks he probably looks silly, sitting on the table bare-assed and hard, but he's never felt more alive. And fortunately Ford doesn’t make him wait long. After fumbling around for a few more minutes he returns, only now he's fully undressed and holding a bottle of something that Stan hasn’t seen in… _well_. He has seen a bottle of lube in a very long time. Not in the hand's of a partner anyway. He gives Ford a curious stare and is met with a hesitant smile. 

“Have you ever…” Ford trails off, stepping in between Stan’s legs. Stan takes the opportunity to touch his bared chest, feeling him shudder as he explores him with his fingers. He has to remind himself not to be intimidated by how well Ford’s aged. Damn him though, always showing him up. 

“Yeah,” he nods, palm rolling against one of his nipples. Ford hisses in response, eliciting a smug smile from Stan. “It’s been a while, but sure. Nothing’s new, except it’s with you. You?”

“Nothing’s new,” Ford repeats with a smile. He leans down and presses their lips together, indulging in something sweet and tender until Stan deepens the kiss, making Ford moan into his mouth. It does wonders for Stan’s confidence; Ford may have the abs, but Stan can make him fall apart with a single kiss. 

"Stanley," Ford whimpers, hands roaming his back. Judging by the furrowed brow and the slight pant, Ford’s starting to get a little desperate. Guided by Ford's hand, Stan slides back against the surface of the table and grunts softly as Ford hauls one of his legs up over his shoulder. 

“Look, Ford, I’m not as...uh...spry as I used to be.”

“You’re doing great,” Ford teases, and before Stan can get a word in edgewise he feels Ford’s fingers start to explore. “But tell me if it’s too much. We’ll get the orthopedic pillow.”

“You’re an asshole,” Stan sighs, feeling pressure and then moaning as Ford finally stops teasing.

“You’re amazing,” he hears Ford counter, but it’s all starting to be drowned out by the sensation of being touched. Ford’s fingers are long and very, very talented, and he’s moving so carefully and so painfully slow with him. He appreciates the delicacy, though he’s not a porcelain doll, for fuck’s sake.

“Good?” 

“Fantastic,” he replies, though his leg’s cramping a little. “Can you just…faster? More?”

“More?” 

“More. Please. Just...more.” He has a few insults in his figurative back pocket in case Ford wants to argue with him, but he shuts him up quickly when he feels Ford’s mouth wrap around him. He pushes another finger inside of him too and Stan begins to tremble. 

Stan does want to take his time. Sure, he’s being fucked on a table, but this...this is special. It’s probably the most significant table fuck in the history of the world. He wants to be romanced, he wants to take his time, and most importantly he wants this to last. But neither of them are particularly patient, after a while Stan thinks he’s going to lose it if he doesn’t feel Ford inside him. Ford’s clearly feeling the same, because after one too many moans he finally pulls back with a shaky sigh. 

“I need you,” he says, and Stan nods, groping for the bottle of lube and shoving it into Ford’s hand. He’d ask later why they even had that bottle on the boat, but for the moment he just silently thanks Ford for his foresight. 

“Do it,” he breathes. He gropes over his head for something to use as a pillow, eventually hitting on Ford’s journal, with all its nice, thick pages and leather dust jacket. He shoves it under his head and hooks both legs around Ford’s body. 

Neither of them can apparently think straight, let alone focus on what they’re doing. Ford fumbles for far too long, and Stan thinks about how they should have walked the few extra steps to the bed. When Ford finally grabs his hips and begins to push his cock inside of him, Stan thinks he sees stars, right there on the ceiling of the cabin. He arches, back popping audibly, and Ford freezes.

“Ford,” he grunts, trying not to whine. “Ford, I'm okay. I'm okay. Don't you fucking stop--”

Stan's pleading seems to bring Ford back out of his own head. He digs his fingers into Stan’s hips and starts rocking against him, Stan grunting as he slowly gets used to the feeling of being so full. Ford's stifled groans grab his attention, and he looks up and begins to watch his face. He looks so laser-focused, brow furrowed as he bites his already-swollen lips. Stan can't resist; he pulls Ford down and kisses him hard, their mouths struggling for purchase as Ford continues to buck against him. 

Stan gropes for the edge of the table and holds on to it for dear life, moaning and crying out each time Ford pulls back and snaps his hips forward. The table creaks and Stan is very glad it’s bolted to the floor, else this would’ve ended badly for the both of them. 

He feels himself start grow hot, body tensing as everything starts to get overwhelming. Ford slows, and he leans forward to press a tender little kiss to his sternum as he wraps his hand around Stan’s cock. "I love you," he whispers, and kisses him again on the chin. It’s all too much. Stan loses it with a soft cry, bucking wildly into Ford's fist until he's completely spent himself.

Brain still hazy, Stan somehow finds Ford's hand and holds tight. "Come on," he pleads, "come on, Ford." Ford gives his fingers a squeeze and continues to rock into him, panting against his chest and whispering his name over and over again. Stan finally feels him come undone, and they both give one last shudder before Ford collapses against him in a heap.

Stan’s patience lasts for another two seconds before he’s sitting up, trying to pull Ford into another long kiss. It’s deep and hot, their mouths sliding together as Ford brings Stan into his arms, holding him so tightly he nearly takes the breath right out of him. 

“Bed?” he murmurs, and Stan agrees groggily. 

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he tells Ford as he’s scraped off the table and walked into the bedroom. The mess they made in the kitchen is tomorrow’s problem. “Because that’s all I’ve got in me for the next four years.”

“So we fuck every leap year?”

“Something like that,” Stan chuckles. They fall into the messy bed and Ford immediately grabs for him. 

“I can’t wait four years, Stanley. I want you again. And again. In fact, give me an hour...”

He snorts and pats Ford’s face affectionately. If it wasn’t for the exhaustion those words on their own probably would have done it for him. “Cocky, aren’t we? Well, we’ll see.” 

“Maybe in the morning,” Ford murmurs, nudging his nose into his neck. His glasses click awkwardly and Ford takes a moment to remove his and Stan's, letting his fingers linger on the side of his face. “I’ll be _very_ cocky in the morning.” 

“You and the puns today. It’s awful.” 

"I thought you enjoyed puns."

"Yeah, good ones. The ones I make." Stan brings a hand up to card through Ford’s hair. “Where to next, by the way?” he asks him softly. 

“I don’t know,” Ford replies. He still has that doe-eyed, just-been-fucked look. Stan thinks it suits him pretty well. “It’s almost December. Should we make our way back to the States and visit the kids?”

Now there’s a thought. “For the holidays?”

“For the holidays,” Ford nods. He draws Stan's hand up to his lips and places a kiss to each reddened knuckle. “And...I can finally meet Shermie’s kid.”

“He’s a big Dorkasaurus Rex like you, so you’ll get probably get along.” 

“Thanks for that." 

“Mn.” Stan rolls onto his back and Ford drapes an arm over him. It’s perfect like this, no barriers between them. “That’s a thousand, I think. An even thousand ‘thank yous’.” 

“I don’t think that counts,” Ford informs him, doing his most punchable voice. “But...I think for the sake of peace in this bed, I’ll give it to you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. How gracious of you.” 

Stan’s eyes adjust to the darkness of the cabin, and he stares at the plain, wooden ceiling with a wry grin. He raises his hand and points. “Right up there, we’re going to carve our names. Stanley and Stanford Pines.”

“And a little heart around it all?”

"Yeah. A little heart around. Stanley hearts Stanford." Ford squeezes him and Stan shakes his head. "No, Stanley adores Stanford."

"But there isn't a symbol for that. Not an English one," Ford tells him. "Maybe a rune..."

"Hey. No rune talk right now. You know what that does to me."

In the dark of the cabin they both chuckle softly, a little slap happy from exhaustion, and pull each other close to share another kiss. It’s nice, Stan thinks to himself. It’s all just as it finally should be. Them, the Stan O' War, adventuring out in the big, wide world. They're a team, the two best of friends, making jokes and beating up monsters, now and for a long, long time to come. 

They’re finally whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, you'll get an epilogue. I can't help myself. c:


	14. Epilogue.

Mabel has been hunkered down in the front window for the past week. Ever since they received that phone call from Grunkle Stan letting them know they were Stateside again, she's plopped herself down and waited for their arrival. It’s a cozy spot though; she’s made herself a nice nest out of comforters and empty boxes of cheesy squares (which she ate). She knows that it’ll take her Grunkles about a week to drive across the country with their boat towing behind them, but she just can’t help herself. She’s afraid that the second she looks away that’s when they’ll show up, and she can’t stand the thought of missing that moment. 

“Mabel…” 

Dipper’s voice drifts into her nest. She bristles; he’s going to be logical about this, she just knows it. She ignores him and rubs her pig’s head, who’s also buried in the blankets and boxes with her. “It’ll be today, Waddles,” she says confidently. “I just know it.”

The comforters move as Dipper flumps down into the pile next to her. “It could be,” he says, grimacing when his hand gets caught in an empty bag of chips, “but Ford might have let Stan drive, so they could also be in a ditch right now.”

“I know that’s supposed to be a joke,” Mabel replies, “ _but his cataracts are so bad_.”

“If the Gravity Falls Police Department weren’t so...huh….” He pauses to search for a word. 

“Distracted by each other?”

“Inept,” Dipper concludes, brushing crumbs off on his shirt, “they’d probably take his license. But then Stan would just drive without it. Ford’s not that irresponsible though.”

“Dipper, he shaves with fire,” she counters, and Dipper smirks. “But seriously, what if they miss Christmas?”

Dipper thinks on it for a couple of seconds, Waddles not-so-sneakily snorting his way under his arm for a belly rub. “We’ll have a second Christmas. A Grunkle Christmas. Or a Grunkle Hanukkah. Grunkle Yule. You’re good at making up holidays; we’ll figure it out.” 

“True,” Mabel nods, “I am very good at making up holidays.” 

“So will you leave the window? I’m supposed to come tell you that Dad wants to vacuum here. Plus you’re kind of...starting to smell....”

Mabel just pulls the comforter around her tighter. “Until Dad builds the widow’s walk I’ve been asking for, this is where I live.” 

Dipper just sighs and reaches over the pig for one of the half-eaten boxes of snacks. “Fine,” he concludes. “Then I guess I’ll just join you.”

“Oh, great! Because I think the mail carrier is having an affair with Mrs. Cassidy across the street. He stops at her house for at least ten minutes to talk, and once I saw him _go inside_. Oh! And there’s this dog - well, I think it’s a dog, I can’t tell what species it is exactly there’s so much fur, but I was thinking you could help me identify it when it comes to our front lawn so it can bark at Waddles and the cat--speaking of cats, do you think cats can fall in love with pigs? Who am I kidding, of course they can!”  
_________________________________

Stan and Ford pull into the driveway that evening. Stan’s been to the town before - the neighborhood, the house - but everything to Ford is new. The family he was about to meet were strangers to him, and Stan knows that he’s thinking about what to say to his nephew and niece-in-law when he meets them. To ease the jitters he tells him the story of the day Mabel and Dipper were born, and even though the story’s a little foggy in his mind and Ford’s heard it about four times now he listens with a calm smile on his face. 

Mabel’s the first out the door, and she barrels into Stan’s arms with big, excited tears rolling down her face. “Grunkle Stan,” she gasps, “you have a beard!” 

He laughs and hauls her up, complete and utter joy lighting up his face. “Nice to see you too, pumpkin. Where’s your brother?” 

Dipper, in fact, had been hot on her trail, and Mabel pounces on Ford so Stan can lean down for a hug from his great-nephew. “Hiya, kid,” he beams, “is that a chin hair I see?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Dipper says, delivering a soft punch to Stan’s arm. Stan chuckles proudly, Ford swinging Mabel around until she squeals. 

“Grunkle Ford, those papers that you sent were amazing! Did you really see a giant narwhal?”

Ford sets Mabel down, though she insists on taking his hand as they make their way to the house. “We did. It was incredible, Dipper. At first we thought it was the kraken, but never in my life have I been more happy to be wr--” 

He stops when he sees Dipper and Mabel’s parents standing in the doorway, watching the scene with cardigans wrapped tightly around their chests to keep the chill at bay. He can see Shermie in the man’s face, and their mother has the twins’ red cheeks and button nose. Ford meets their gaze and in an instance their caution disappears, and Shermie’s son opens his arms wide. 

“Stan, Ford!” he yells, “you must be exhausted! Come in, come in!” 

“We’re so glad you made it,” echoes the twins’ mother, and she immediately pulls Stan into a bone-crushing hug. “The roads are supposed to get nasty tonight. We’ve got the guest bedroom made up for you, and I’ve got dinner on the table…” 

They’re swept into the house, which is cozy and warm and not-at-all surrounded by water, fed until Stan’s groaning and begging for mercy, and then brought into the parlor so they can regale everyone with stories. Stan’s still partly comatose from the food, so Ford is the one who indulges them, starting off easy at first with generic tales of sailing and how fascinating it was to visit different countries, just to gauge how much weirdness the two adults could handle. 

Turns out they're able to handle a lot. The fact that they had Mabel and Dipper should have been the first clue, but nevertheless Ford is astonished by how easily they seem to accept the various oddities they had encountered in their travels. He talks about the ghost ship, the narwhals, the fact that they might have visited a colony of talking manatees, and then, when Stan is snoring away with Dipper and Mabel tucked under each arm, he finally broaches the subject of his thirty-year disappearance. 

His nephew takes it all in stride, but his niece-in-law begins to cry. “I’m just so happy we have more family,” she bawls, forcing Ford into a tight hug. “And that you’re safe. And that you and Stan have made amends. And that you’re here for the holidays!”

She’s eventually removed by her husband, who laughs good-humoredly and clasps Ford on the shoulder. “I think it might be our cue to hit the hay. I’ll leave you to wake the gruesome twosome.”

“Oh,” Ford murmurs, looking down at the sleeping trio. He’d gotten so wrapped up in the story he’d barely noticed his audience had dwindled. “Thanks for that.” 

His nephew grins to himself and heads upstairs with his wife, leaving Ford to gently shake everyone awake. “It’s time to rise and shine, everyone. Get up!” 

Mabel grumbles and nuzzles in closer to Stan, but Dipper manages to wake enough to slump groggily against the arm of the couch. “Grunkle Ford, can we see the boat?”

“Yeah,” Mabel mumbles, “I want to sleep the bort.” 

Stan’s laugh comes out as a low rumble in his chest. He sits up and rubs his face, Mabel losing her pillow and falling back behind him. “Come on, sweetie, you can sleep the bort.”

“Dipper, will you grab some blankets?” Ford asks, but Dipper’s already up on his feet and scurrying towards the closet. He returns to wait with an armful of blankets and pillows for Stan to haul Mabel up, and when he does they all shuffle outside. 

The Stan O’ War II is difficult to board now that it’s parked in a driveway, but all four of them and the bedding make it up the side and onto the deck with only minimal difficulty. The grand tour is quick, but Mabel and Dipper are awake (and Ford suspects gracious) enough to be excited by just about everything. 

“Is this your fridge? And this is your window? And this is your pile of rope? Wow! Look, navigation dealies!” Mabel picks up the radio and turns a few dials before she’s distracted by Ford’s maps. “Living on a boat is amazing!”

“Mabel,” Dipper scoffs, leaning against the railing, “it’s not that...woah, what is that? Is that a harpoon?”

“Stan’s harpoon, yes. He’s a good shot, surprisingly,” Ford explains, toeing the thing out of the way. 

“Cataracts,” Mabel mouths behind Stan’s back, Dipper nodding solemnly. 

The bench and table in the cabin easily convert into a bed for the twins, and Ford turns on the space heater to warm up the compartment while Stan makes some cocoa. “I wish we could come with you on your adventures,” Mabel says wistfully, already tucked into the bed like she belongs there. She reaches for her mug of cocoa and snuggles down into the blankets. 

“Maybe we can find a lake and take the boat for a spin,” Dipper suggests. “You know...get a feel for it.” When the Grunkles don’t immediately shoot the idea down, Dipper and Mabel both grin expectantly. 

“Maybe next summer you can come out with us,” Stan says, though he’s already picturing the arguments for personal safety he’s going to have with their parents. “Your grandpa’s going to be mad that I’m hogging you again.”

“Grandpa’ll be fine,” Mabel scoffs, chocolate dribbling down her chin. “He gets birthdays and major holidays with us. Have you seen him since coming back, Grunkle Ford?”

“Not yet, Mabel.” Ford’s back is to them, fiddling with a cup of tea on the counter. He finishes whatever he’s doing to the drink and hands it to Stan, who sips mindlessly, like he’s been nagged day in and day out by his brother and given up the fight. “I think your parents are going to have him over while we’re here though.”

“Oh my gosh! Family reunion!” Mabel’s eyes widen -- she’s already daydreaming of teary hugs and scrapbook-able moments. Stan shares a chuckle with Ford and Dipper and finishes off the tea with a vitamin the size of a horse pill. He doesn’t know what his brother puts in his drink that makes it taste so good, but there’s something about it that always makes him warm and fuzzy inside. 

Ford watches everyone finish their warm drinks, then declares it to be bedtime when Stan presents him with his empty mug. 

“Bossypants tonight," Mabel says with a wriggle.

"Bossypants every night," Stan sighs, turning off the overhead light. 

“The stars aren’t so bright out here,” Ford chimes in, “but you two can pretend you’re on the water.” 

“Oh, I already am,” Mabel reassures him. “I can rock and it’s almost like I’m on the waves.”

“Mabel, stop, you’re making me sick.”

“Sea sick?”

“No, regular sick. I’m gonna barf if you don’t stop.”

“Just like when we went on that whale watch!” 

“Hey, that was you!”

“Yeah, but then you barfed when you saw me barf.”

Ford leaves them to their friendly bickering and closes the divide to their bedroom nook. “And to think, I missed this.” Stan is mumbling to himself as he crawls into bed. “Grass is always greener, Sixer, grass is always greener.” 

Ford smirks and removes his boots before getting into the bed with him. They can still hear the twins talking, though the chatter gets quieter as the minutes pass. Under the blankets Ford finds Stan’s hand, and he entwines their fingers together. 

“Feeling okay?” Ford asks, taking care to whisper.

“Feeling great, yeah.” Stan rolls onto his side, his whiskered chin resting on Ford’s shoulder. “I had a headache or something earlier, but the caffeine in the tea woke me right up.” 

“It’s caffeine-free. You’re probably reacting to the vitamins.” Stan feels Ford’s smile as he presses his lips to his head. 

“You’re a snakeoil salesman, Ford. Those vitamins don’t do squat.” 

“Placebo effect,” Ford counters. “Go to sleep, Stanley. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, go to sleep in there!” Mabel yells from the kitchen. “Don’t make me turn this boat around!” 

“Next time remind me to spike their cocoa,” Stan says loudly, making sure the twins can hear him. He's met with giggles and his smile stretches from ear-to-ear. "Goodnight, kids!"

"Goodnight!" they yell in unison.

"Goodnight, you old goat," Ford murmurs, Stan tucking himself against his chest. 

"Goodnight, ya big nerd." 

Gradually everyone falls asleep, the sounds of the wind and snow sweeping through the suburbs echoing their nights at sea. 

Ford dreams of winter, vials of precious water being snuck into numerous cups of tea, the nephew he’d only just met, the younger brother he hasn’t seen in years, the man in his arms. Stan dreams of summer, Mabel’s stickers on the soles of his shoes, Dipper’s puzzles littering the table, treasure hunting on the high seas with his best friend. They rest, eager to wake in the morning and begin another day’s adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote, folks! Thank you to my beta, the numerous people who have made fanart for this fic, the lovely people who have encouraged me along the way, and anyone who's read it, commented, talked about it, shared it on tumblr, or the various other ways you've enjoyed it. It's been immensely rewarding to write -- thank you!!


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